Hijack My Heart
by Oriole Adams
Summary: Niles proposes. Chapter 8 is now up, please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

C.C. Babcock sighed heavily as she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She was tired and irritated; somehow she'd let her cell phone battery run out of juice, and she was now forced to use an airport payphone that was sticky with the sweat of a thousand poor people. She shifted her weight on her feet while the phone rang.

"Sheffield residence."

"Niles?" she asked through the static.

"My, my, it's the Mouth that Roared," the cultured English accent replied.

"Don't give me grief, Butler Boy, I'm tired and cranky – "

"And this is different how?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes skyward and groaned.

"Just get Maxwell on the phone. Now."

"Mr. Sheffield is out for the evening," he replied. Then, just to rub her face in it, "he took his fiancée out for dinner."

C.C. gritted her teeth. Lucky thing Ragmop couldn't see her face; she really didn't want him to know how much he got to her when he brought up Maxwell's engagement to Nanny Fine.

"Great," she spit out, "I'm working my butt off, and he's out carousing with the hired help. Well, good for him. Take a message, then. Tell him I'll be arriving at JFK tomorrow at 2:10PM. Have him arrange for me to be picked up at the British Airways terminal."

"British Airways? I thought you were flying on United, since the Concorde cancelled its broom service."

"I _was _on United, but I finished here early, and all their flights tonight are booked."

"Well, it _is_ the Christmas season," Niles reminded her.

"Yeah, yeah, ho ho ho. I just want to get out of the Third World and get home to my own bed as soon as possible."

"If you can find it under the dust," he remarked.

"Shove it, Hoover Breath." She paused for a moment to hear an announcement over the loudspeaker:

_EgyptAir flight 181 to Athens now boarding at Gate 11._

"I've got to run, they just called my flight."

"Egypt Air?" Niles asked, having heard the announcement.

"That was the only way I could get home at short notice. I'm flying into Athens, and catching a British Air flight from there. Make sure Maxwell gets my message." And with that she hung up, grabbed her carry-on bag, and headed for Gate 11.

C.C. joined the slow-moving line and grumbled to herself.

"You'd think they'd at least have priority boarding for first class passengers." She looked ahead at the aircraft as she waited on the jetway. "If they even have first class; this crate looks like the freakin' _Spirit of St. Louis_."

She eventually made her way on board and found her seat. She took out some paperwork and stowed her bag under the seat. The man in the next seat looked at her appreciatively, taking in her well-cut cream-colored slacks and silk blouse. She saw him out the corner of her eye and prayed silently that he wouldn't try to make conversation with her. But luck was not with her.

"So, do you live in Vienna?" he asked her.

"No," she replied, "I was there on business."

"Oh, what line of work are you in?" he leaned closer to her.

Mustering up what she hoped was an air of impatience, she responded, "I'm in the theatre business. I had to check out the Vienna Opera House for an upcoming show my company is producing." She turned back to the papers on her lap with an air of finality.

Luckily, the flight attendant approached taking drink orders, and that distracted her seatmate for the time being. C.C. stretched her long legs out in front of her tiredly. It had been an exhausting 10 days, booking houses in Europe for Max's latest production. Normally such negotiations could've been arranged via fax, but the news of her partner's engagement gave C.C. the urge to get away. She'd volunteered to meet with the promoters in person to dicker for better percentages and to personally inspect the facilities.

The pre-flight instructions were given, and the plane took off, only a few minutes behind schedule. C.C. settled back in her seat and closed her eyes, ignoring the papers in her lap.

About ten minutes into the flight, she opened her eyes with a start. She looked around and was vaguely aware of a commotion in the back of the plane. Suddenly the curtain separating first class from coach was pulled open and a wild-eyed man with a gun was shouting something in a foreign language. Another man appeared behind him, brandishing a hand grenade and yelling in English.

"Everyone! Do as you are told!"

"What the...." C.C. thought to herself. The whole scene was surreal and it took a few minutes for reality to sink in. "Oh my God, we're being hijacked!"

The man with the gun had a flight attendant by the neck and was banging on the cockpit door. The stewardess was sobbing and shouting "Captain! Please! Open the door! They will kill us!"

Meanwhile, the grenade man ordered all the first class passengers to go to the back of the plane. C.C. instinctively grabbed her purse and followed the others back into coach, where the other passengers had been herded back into the rearmost seats.

An announcement came over the loudspeaker: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are being hijacked. Please don't panic. We are cooperating with their demands. Please obey their orders and everyone will be OK."

"Hell of a lot of good all those so-called security measures did," C.C. muttered to no one in particular. "Where are the damned air marshals?" Looking around, she couldn't tell at a glance for sure, but she suspected that there weren't very many American passengers aboard. Certainly she was the only one with obviously Nordic features. She suddenly felt very conspicuous, and tried to slump down in her chair.

Another man with a gun came by and issued instructions in a foreign language. The flight attendant with him was holding a sack, and translated for him.

"Please, everyone, get your passports out and put them in this bag. I am collecting passports, please have them ready," she repeated as she went from row to row.

C.C. removed her blue-covered passport with its distinctive gold eagle emblem on the front from her purse and dropped it in the bag. She felt aggravated more than afraid; they were forced to fit four people in five seats, and she was squished against a man that smelled of curry powder.

"I've seen enough movies to know that this could take a while," she thought to herself. "Thank God I went to the bathroom before we took off."

C.C. presumed they'd fly to some airport and sit until some political prisoners of one type or another were released, and then they'd be free to go home. That's how it worked on the Lifetime channel, after all. What a pain; she'd surely miss her connection in Athens now. Time ticked by, the passengers were silent, the only sound was the drone of the airplane engines.

She must've dozed off, because the next thing she knew her ears were popping and the plane was landing. She couldn't look out the window, as all the shades had been drawn. She heard some murmuring from the passengers around her, but of course, they weren't murmuring in English. "Figures," she thought to herself.

After the plane landed, they sat for awhile, and then the purser made an announcement.

"Will the following passengers please come foreword when I call their names?"

The passengers grew eerily quiet and looked around at each other in anticipation.

"Hayim Greenberg."

An older man with a long beard, dressed in a black suit, rose and slowly, deliberately approached the front of the plane. A gunman stood at the head of the aisle with a pistol trained on him.

"Randall Baker."

A tall, bookish-looking man with wire-framed glasses got up.

"Victoria Westlane."

No one moved. Two men with guns stomped down the aisle and forcefully grabbed the wrist of a redheaded woman in her mid-20s. One man waved a passport in his hand, thrusting it in her face and demanding "You? You!" They pulled her to her feet and pushed her up towards the front of the plane.

"Chastity Babcock."

C.C.'s breath caught in her throat, and she froze for a moment. Then, as if in a daze, she got out of her seat and approached the front.

When she got to the front of the plane, she was unceremoniously shoved into a window seat. The Westlane woman was next to her, and the two men were across the aisle. Looking at the passports in the flight attendant's hand, C.C. realized that they'd singled out the American passengers along with the lone Israeli passenger. Suddenly her anger dissipated and her limbs were licked cold with the icy flames of fear.

The long hours of waiting began. As the hijackers wandered up and down the aisle and consulted in the cockpit, the four passengers in the front managed to exchange some whispered messages.

"Any idea where we are?"

"I heard someone mention Turkey," responded Victoria, in a frightened voice with a distinctively Southern accent.

The hostages could hear some of the conversation in the cockpit, and determined that the hijackers were negotiating for fuel. So far, the Turkish airport was refusing them. Then they heard the words that chilled them to the bone:

"Please be advised that we will kill one passenger every 15 minutes until we get fuel."

And suddenly there was a man with a gun standing next to them in the aisle. He gestured to Hayim Greenberg.

"You! You will come with me!"

Greenberg hesitated, and the hijacker whacked him over the head with his pistol. C.C. cringed as she heard the dull, meaty thud when it hit his skull. Greenberg got up and was pushed/pulled to the open door of the plane. As if in slow motion, C.C. watched the hijacker aim his gun at the back of Hayim's head and pull the trigger. They heard the shot, and then watched the body bounce down the stairs after the hijacker gave it a push. There were screams and cries throughout the plane. The pilot could be heard screaming on the microphone: "They've killed a passenger! They've killed a passenger!"

C.C. fought back a wave of nausea and closed her eyes. Victoria shrieked and buried her face in C.C.'s shoulder. After a few moments the passengers grew quiet again, except for some muffled sniffles and sobbing. Despite the hijackers' threat of a 15-minute deadline, an hour went by after Mr. Greenberg had been killed. The hijackers nervously patrolled the aisle and the passengers fidgeted nervously in their seats, trying to avoid making eye contact with their captors.

"Oh, God, why didn't I stay in Vienna? Is this how it all ends, then? Like this?" C.C. thought to herself, looking towards the window, even though the shade was down. "That's all there is?" Her mind wandered, thinking of the things she'd wished she'd done. "I should've taken more time for myself. I live in New York City, and I've never been to the top of the Statue of Liberty, for crying out loud. God, the last thing I'm going to see in this life is the inside of this hideous airplane." Her thoughts jumped from one irrational topic to another. "Who is going to take care of Chester? I guess Nanny Fine... Maxwell... What did I ever see in him? He's really rather spineless, when you get down to it. Once I'm gone, how long before he finds a new partner? A day? A week? Niles...Niles, with those ice blue eyes, the accent that makes me melt. God, he's only the help, and I may have been drunk, but I still remember his arms around me that night. His kiss...his lips on my....oh, why didn't I ever tell him how I felt?"

Even though she was terrified, and tried to concentrate on the situation at hand, she couldn't help but think of Niles. "That Dustmop would've weaseled out of this if he was here, with his Limey passport. Mmmm, that Limey...British accent, his beautiful voice..." She wished he was there to put his arms around her and murmer in her ear that everything was going to be OK. Victoria interrupted her thoughts when she whispered, "Are we doing to die?"

"I don't know," C.C. replied. "Unless the cavalry, or at least the Delta Force, suddenly shows up, of course we're going to die, you ninny." But C.C. kept that last thought to herself.

"Will....will you pray with me. Please?" the younger girl asked.

C.C. nodded and held Victoria's hand as she bowed her head. She tried to concentrate on the words of the Lord's Prayer, but her mind still flitted from thought to thought. "Why me, why now, why me? Niles, do you know I'm thinking about you? Would you care if you did? Oh, dear God, I hope I didn't leave anything embarrassing in my apartment. I don't need Nanny Fine gossiping about me when they clean the place out...."

As the time dragged on, and the standoff continued between the control tower and the cockpit, the hijackers eventually dispatched first Victoria and then Randy the same way they'd done with Hiyam Greenberg. C.C. intertwined her fingers together in her lap to keep her hands from shaking. She'd lost all track of time and began thinking to herself "maybe I should try to pray again? Nah, why start now? God would only laugh at me. Just like everyone else does..." She jolted from her reverie when she heard a noise to her left. With unbearable certainty, she looked up as a gunman approached her seat.

"You. Come." He reached down and grabbed her arm.

"Unhand me, you smelly, illiterate peasant," she snapped, shaking him off. Even if it was the last thing she did, she was determined to maintain her dignity. She arose and walked slowly, her jaw set, to the open airplane door, pointedly wiping off the place on her silk blouse that the hijacker had touched. Her thoughts tumbled around in a panic. Her hands were free, could she overpower this guy? Not likely, there were at least two more gunmen that she had seen, plus the man with the grenade.

C.C. stood at the precipice of the open plane door and looked outside. This was the last time she would see sunshine, she thought to herself. She heard the pilot yelling into the microphone, and the gunman behind her yelling back. Suddenly the grenade man shouted something, C.C. turned her head, and the gunman glanced away while simultaneously pulling the trigger.

C.C. heard what sounded like an explosion inside her head and the world around her turned gray. She had the sensation of falling....falling....falling. The ground suddenly reached up and caught her. She lay still for a moment and then cautiously opened her eyes. "Am I dead?" she wondered.

She lay on the tarmac partially on her side, and partially face down. She heard sounds, but they sounded so very far away. She hurt all over, and the world seemed to be swirling around her. Yet she instinctively knew to hold perfectly still, to play dead. Just in case they were still watching.

Niles was slouched on the sofa, flipping around channels on the TV distractedly. He was sleepy, but had to wait for Mr. Sheffield and Fran to get home before he could go to bed. Knowing Fran, she'd probably want a late-night nosh before retiring, despite the fact that she'd just had a hearty dinner. Shortly before midnight, he heard a key in the front door, and the couple burst in, giggling and talking.

"I trust you had a pleasant evening?" he asked as he took their coats.

"Oh, it was wonderful!" Fran exclaimed. "And look how they wrapped the doggy bag!" She held a foil-wrapped package aloft. It was shaped like a swan.

"Lovely," he mumbled, as he relieved her of the package and went to put it in the refrigerator.

"Well, I'm exhausted," Max yawned, "I think I'll call it a night..."

Suddenly their attention was diverted by a news broadcast on the TV.

"We interrupt this program with a special announcement. We have breaking news on a terrorist situation in Turkey."

"Oy," sighed Fran, "Will it ever end?"

Niles returned to the living room. "What goes on?" he asked.

"Some sort of hijacking," Max replied as he turned to go upstairs.

The news anchor looked earnestly into the camera and reported:

"Egypt Air flight 181 was hijacked shortly after takeoff tonight and is now on the runway at Adana-Sakirpasa Airport in Turkey. We have an unconfirmed report that several American passengers have been shot...."

They didn't hear the rest; the broadcast was drowned out by an ear-piercing, gut-wrenching cry that came from Niles.

"Noooo!"

"What's the matter, old man?" Max came back down the stairs and looked at Niles curiously.

"Miss Babcock. She's on that plane."

"What are you talking about? C.C.'s in Vienna. She's not due home until Friday."

Niles struggled to control his quivering voice as he sunk down onto the couch.

"No," he spoke in a monotone as he stared straight ahead. "She called. She left early. She was on an Egypt Air flight. I'm sure that's the one." His chest was heaving up and down as he spoke.

Fran and Max exchanged glances, and Fran sat next to Niles.

"I'm sure there's more than one Egypt flight outta Australia or wherever," she comforted Niles. "There's probably nothing to worry about."

"No," Niles repeated. "I know. I just know."

C.C. remained still on the tarmac. It started to rain lightly, and as the raindrops hit her head wound, she struggled not to cringe with pain. It felt like she was being pelted with stones. She took a chance and scooched ever so slightly underneath the bottom step of the stairway, so that her wound was protected from the rain. She was suddenly aware of a rumbling noise nearby. She waited. There were footsteps. Hands reached down and flipped her over. She reflexively moaned in pain.

"Hey!" a voice shouted. "This one's alive!"

She was placed on a stretcher and put into a car of some sort. She braced herself for another gunshot. When none came, she finally spoke.

"Who are you?"

"We're medics, miss. We're taking you to the hospital."

For the first time in many hours, C.C. relaxed, and then she blacked out.

When she awoke, she was in a hospital, and her head was swathed in bandages. Her throat was dry, and she hurt everywhere. A nurse was standing next to her, writing on her chart.

"Where am I?" C.C. croaked.

The nurse was momentarily startled, then signaled for a doctor. A dark-haired man in a white jacket smiled down at C.C.

"Hello, Miss Babcock. How do you feel?"

"Lousy."

He chuckled. "I am Dr. Kemal, and you are at the Incirlik Hospital in Turkey."

C.C. struggled to grasp what he was saying, but the effort exhausted her.

"You have a head injury. We've taken some X-rays and are waiting for your vital signs to stabilize before we perform surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Yes. You have a bullet lodged in your head. We've made arrangements for Dr. T. Forcht Dagi to operate tomorrow, hopefully. He's a neurosurgeon, one of the best. He's flying in from India."

"Dr. Dagwood? What?" C.C. was groggy from the pain medication she'd been given.

"If you could just sign this release..." he held up a clipboard in front of her. C.C. weakly grasped the proffered pen, and let the doctor's hand guides hers as he made an X on the signature line.

"You rest now," Dr. Kemal told her. "I'll be back to check on you later. In the meantime, if you need anything just ring."

"Babcock. C.C. Babcock. She was on an Egypt Air flight departing from Vienna," Maxwell shouted into the phone. He was getting exasperated, having first phoned the airline, then FBI, then the State Department. The Feds were up and working despite the late hour, due to the hostage situation. Once C.C.'s name had been verified on the passenger manifest, Max's call was put through to the proper authority.

"Yes, Mr. Sheffield," a voice informed him. "I'm sorry to confirm that Miss Babcock is indeed on flight 181."

"How can I get there? To wherever she is?"

"Are you a family member?"

"I'm her business partner. She has no family, to speak of."

After checking with a few superiors, the voice on the phone was able to arrange an Air Force flight to take Max to the hospital in Turkey.

"Fran, pack me an overnight bag. I've got to get to JFK right away."

"I'm going, too," Niles said evenly.

Thanks to his impeccable organization, Niles had the necessities packed within a matter of minutes. He returned to the living room, awaiting Maxwell, when Fran came down the stairs.

"I've ordered a limo for you two, you're both too upset to drive yourselves," she said, putting an arm around Niles. She was secretly surprised to see how concerned Niles was over C.C.'s situation, but this was not the time to ask questions.

Max trotted down the stairs, bag in one hand, passport in the other.

"Take care of things here, won't you love," he said, kissing Fran as she flung her arms around his neck.

"Call me as soon as you know anything," she made him promise.

The two men stepped out into the night air and into the waiting limo.

It was 3:00 in the afternoon the next day local time when a weary and tense Max and Niles arrived at Incirlik Air Base. It had not been a pleasant trip; apart from their mental stress, they'd taken a small, private plane from JFK to Stewart Air Force Base, then were transported on a military cargo plane to Turkey. The accommodations had been less than luxurious, and the conversation had been sparse. Max noticed Niles' obvious preoccupation, and tried to distract him a few times with light conversation.

"I bet C.C. will be fit to be tied once she's released," Max joked.

Niles stared straight ahead and replied evenly, "If those bastards have hurt her, I'll kill them. Every last one of them."

Max was surprised by his friend's sudden compassion for a woman he'd thought was his sworn enemy. On the other hand, he did see them in a liplock that one night...maybe they hadn't been as drunk as he'd thought.

Upon arrival in Turkey they'd been whisked through Passport Control stepped into the bullet-proof limo that had been arranged by the American embassy in Turkey. The ride to the hospital was tense. The medical facility was crawling with reporters from around the world; the hijacking was big news, and the media was trying to find out how many survivors from flight 181 were inside. Niles and Max were escorted past the throng by an official and led down a corridor. There they were met by Dr. Kemal. The escort exchanged a few words in Turkish with the doctor, and then he turned to the obviously disheveled Americans.

"You are friends of Miss Babcock?" he smiled politely.

"Yes, how is she? Where is she?" Maxwell and Niles almost spoke in unison.

"You are just in time," the doctor replied, motioning them to sit down on the available chairs. "Miss Babcock's condition is stable at the moment. She has a bullet lodged in her head..."

"My God!" Niles involuntarily gasped.

"We have a highly respected neurosurgeon on the way," Dr. Kemal continued. "We expect him within the next 30 minutes. After he looks at the X-rays, we'll know more."

"Can we see her?" Maxell asked.

"She's resting right now," Dr. Kemal said gently. "It would be best if you wait for Dr. Dagi."

"Is it safe for her to have that thing in her head all this time?" Maxwell asked. "Shouldn't you get that bullet out of her head as soon as possible?"

"Mr.....Sheffield, is it? Mr. Sheffield, there are many considerations with an injury such as this. Our main priority when she arrived was to stabilize her vital signs, get her blood pressure down. The risk for stroke is increased otherwise, you see? We also cleaned the wound as best we could to prevent infection. Luckily, there is no evidence of ricochet or hematoma. The cranial pressure is fine. Trust me, we're doing what's best for her."

After further consultation, Niles and Maxwell were led to a private waiting area where they were protected from the paparazzi. There was nothing they could do but wait.

"Gentlemen?" a cultured British accent asked. Max and Niles looked up to see a tall, slender dark man in a white jacket. "I am Dr. Dagi. Would you please come with me?"

He turned and walked down a corridor, with Niles and Max trailing behind him. He led them to a small room, where a series of X-Rays were clipped up on an illuminated board.

"I understand that you are friends of Miss Babcock."

The two murmured in the affirmative.

"I shall be performing the surgery on her to remove the bullet. See here..." he gestured to one of the X-Rays, "it is lodged in the lower skull, partially penetrating the cerebellum, but there may be bone fragments that were pushed up into the Occipital Lobe...."

"Can you put it a little more simply?" asked an exasperated Maxwell.

"Certainly. The cerebellum is the part of the brain that manages movement, including walking and balance. It is also part of the short-term memory storage. Damage to the Occipital Lobe could affect vision, concentration and sleeping cycles. We won't know until we actually explore the area whether the bullet splintered any bone fragments that may have lodged in the Occipital Lobe. We're hoping that's not the case."

Niles, who'd been sitting with his head in his hands up 'til now, looked up at the surgeon.

"Will you have to shave her head for surgery?"

"That's the usual procedure...why?"

"Is there any way you could just shave the portion that's being operated on? So she won't be bald?"

"Yes, I suppose. It's done that way for many brain tumor patients, I don't see why we can't do it in this case."

Niles looked at the question marks on Maxwell's face. "After all she's been through, Miss Babcock shouldn't have to awake and see a bald head in the mirror to remind her of this incident."

Secretly, Niles knew that despite his insults, his calling her a cow and a brunette and everything else, that Miss Babcock was as concerned about her appearance as any other woman. He felt so helpless at the moment; allowing her to maintain some semblance of her dignity seemed like the least he could do for her.

Dr. Diga promised to report back to the pair as soon as he had any news, and left to scrub for surgery. He suggested they go relax in the cafeteria and get something to eat, as the surgery would take several hours.

Max was silent as the pair walked towards the cafeteria. He'd actually been stunned by Niles' thoughtfulness as far as C.C.'s hair. Did the old chap have feelings for Miss Babcock? Max had to admit to himself that he wouldn't have been able to describe how C.C. even wore her hair; these days he was too wrapped up in Fran.

The two men found the cafeteria and bought a cup of coffee each. The strong Turkish java nearly took the top of Maxwell's head off, but Niles didn't seem to notice how vile the drink was; he drank it down in a few sips while staring blankly ahead.

Max finally spoke. "I'm sure she'll be fine, old boy."

Niles started, as if waking from a daydream. "What? Oh, yes. I wasn't worried, I was...thinking about something else."

"Like what?"

"Um," Niles fumbled around for a moment, then replied, "like how long will this take; you shouldn't be away from business and Miss Fine too long, after all. And where will we stay? You're exhausted, and I doubt there are any five-star hotels in this area."

"Oh, so you've been worrying about me, eh?" Max looked at him skeptically.

"Of course, what else?"

Niles drained his cup and reached over and took Max's. He threw back a swallow.

"You're nervous enough without all that caffeine," Max observed.

"I need the jolt," Niles responded. "I'm going to be doing a lot of pacing."

"Gentlemen?" a nurse asked questioningly.

Max looked up from his seat in the waiting room, and Niles dashed over from where he'd been walking the perimeter of the small area.

"If you would please come with me," she gestured, as she led them down the hall to the small room where'd they'd looked at those X-Rays so many hours ago. Niles visibly braced himself as a tired-looking Dr. Kemel entered.

"She's doing well," was the first thing he said. "Dr. Dagi is truly a fine surgeon."

"What's her prognosis?" Max asked.

"When can we see her?" Niles asked at the same time.

"She'll be taken to recovery within half an hour, and you can visit briefly then." He gestured towards the chairs in the room and the three of them sat down.

"We removed the bullet," he began. "There was some damage to the cerebellum, but at the moment, it didn't look like anything too severe. There were only a few small bone fragments, from what we could see, and we removed those without much difficulty. Our main concern for the next 24 hours is infection. The brain sometimes reacts to being invaded, and it may swell. That could cause additional damage. We will keep a close watch."

Max sighed and slid back in his chair. It had been a hellish 48 hours, and with this report from the doctor, he felt like he could finally relax a little. Niles was perched on the edge of his chair, his face only inches from Dr. Kemel.

"What damage has been done? Is Miss Babcock going to fully recover? What else can be done for her?" the questions poured out in a rush, and Dr. Kemel stopped Niles mid-sentence by holding up his hand.

"We won't know for sure how much brain damage has been done until she has recovered somewhat from the surgery and tests can be run. She was lucky that the bullet that struck her was homemade."

"Lucky?" Niles snorted.

"Yes," the doctor responded. "As is the case in many underground terrorist cults, they have little money, so they have to work with what they have, often fashioning their own weapons. The bullet that struck Miss Babcock had been hollowed out and repacked sloppily. It lacked the power of a commercial projectile. Plus, the trajectory was odd; being shot at close range, the bullet should have gone straight into the temporal lobe. For some reason, the path went upwards, at a slight angle."

As he pictured the gun being held to C.C.'s head, Niles tensed, grinding his fist into his other hand.

"How _is _she, though? Is she going to be OK, or a vegetable, or what?" Niles was practically shouting. Max reached over and lightly put his hand on Niles' shoulder.

"Mr....?"

"Worthington. Niles Worthington."

"Mr. Worthington, as I said, we won't know for sure until further tests can be run. I can only tell you at this time that there is some damage to the cerebellum. The cerebellum processes information other areas of the brain, spinal cord and sensory receptors to provide precise timing for coordinated, smooth movements of the skeletal muscular system. In addition, there may be involvement from the Occipital Lobe, which could mean her hearing or vision or short-term memory could be affected. We simply don't know right now."

The doctor sighed and rose.

"The nurse will come fetch you when Miss Babcock is in recovery." He inclined his head politely to them, and left.

C.C. moaned quietly and slowly opened her eyes.

"Good day, Miss," a white-clad figure greeted her with heavily accented English. She adjusted the IV and made a notation on C.C.'s chart.

"What...who....where am I? What's going on?"

"The doctor will speak with you directly," the nurse cheerfully replied, then disappeared.

C.C. groaned in pain again, and attempted to turn her head to take in her surroundings. It hurt to move, and there was something in her way. She moved slightly again. Something was wrapped around her head. She paused for a moment. She remembered an airplane flight, Niles, falling, falling, someone saying "medic", a ride in a rickety ambulance, clucking like a chicken, the smell of curry, people jabbering in a foreign language... She struggled to put the pieces together, but the mental effort exhausted her. She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Miss Babcock?"

She opened her eyes at the sound of a clipped British accent.

"I am Dr. Dagi. I am the surgeon that operated on you. Do you know why you're here?"

C.C. sighed. "My head hurts. I hurt all over. I supposed that has something to do with it?"

The surgeon smiled and patted her hand which was resting atop the covers. "We'll give you something for the pain soon. Do you remember anything else?"

"Plane. I was flying home. Trying to." she paused, then grew excited, and tried to sit up. "We were hijacked! Have they been caught?" She moaned at the resultant pain of moving, and sank back into the pillows.

"You received a gunshot wound," the doctor explained. "We removed the bullet. You're going to be all right."

The anger that had evaporated so quickly during the hijacking returned with a vengeance.

"Fucking bastards. I couldn't even identify one of them if I had to. They didn't wear masks, but those goddamned people all look alike..."

Dr. Dagi tried to ignore the slight, charging off her attitude to her condition. "Miss Babcock, you must know that in addition to the head wound, you also suffered three broken ribs, some torn ligaments in your neck, and a hairline fracture of your left wrist."

C.C. recalled bouncing off the metal staircase as she'd fallen from the plane. "Yeah, well, Mrs. Peter Pan I'm not. Cripes, I'm talking like what's her name, Nanny Fine's mother...."

Dr. Dagi didn't understand what she said, and, thinking her language skills had been affected,

made a note on her chart to arrange for a neuropsychological examination as part of her follow-up treatment.

The doctor checked C.C.'s vital signs and assured her all was well. "If you need anything, the buzzer is right here. Dr. Kemel is on duty and is familiar with your case. Right now, if you're up to it, you have some friends here wanting to see you."

C.C. stifled the urge to reply "I don't have any friends" and instead said simply "Oh?"

A nurse entered the room, followed by two dearly familiar faces. For a moment C.C. thought she was hallucinating.

"Niles?" she said questioningly. Then, as an afterthought, "and Maxwell?"

The two men stood by her bedside, and Niles picked up her exposed hand and held it.

"When did you get here? How did you know....?" C.C. was confused, and was trying to make sense of the situation.

"My dear Miss Babcock," Niles replied, "you've hit the big time. The hijacking news is being broadcast on everything from CNN to the Spanish soap opera channel."

"And you came all this way to see me? You didn't just send a singing telegram?"

Niles mentally breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, at least part of C.C.'s memory was intact, and she was feeling well enough to make jokes.

Max almost felt like he was intruding, so he cleared his throat and spoke. "C.C.? The doctor says that if your vital signs remain stable, you can be moved the day after tomorrow."

"Only if Turkey has a contract with International Harvester...." Niles muttered.

"Lick a bedpan, Dust Buster," C.C. shot back.

Max shook his head. Those two never quit. "Anyway, I've spoken to the ambassador; they've made arrangements for you to be transported first to Walter Reed hospital in Washington, DC, and then home."

"Why can't I just go home when I get out of here?"

"There are military authorities that want to talk to you, C.C.," Max explained. "They have an excellent medical staff there that can tend to your needs, but apparently you also have to be debriefed before going home."

"Debriefed? Now there's something she can do in her slee-"

"Can it, Butler Boy," C.C. retorted, although she was smiling as she said it. Somehow his insults made her feel safe.

A nurse entered the room and tactfully suggested that the patient could do with some rest now. Max and Niles said their good-byes, and gave C.C. reassurances that she would be OK, and that they'd stay with her until she got home. Niles was the last to leave, and he held onto her hand as if he never wanted to let go.

"Niles?" C.C. whispered, as fatigue overcame her.

"Yes, I'm here, Miss Babcock."

"Thank you." she breathed, and then fell asleep.

When Niles walked out into the corridor, Max was already on his cell phone, speaking to Fran. He updated her on C.C.'s condition.

"That's fabulous, Sweetie," Fran honked on her end. "Did you see on the news? What happened to the plane?"

"No, we haven't left the hospital since we arrived."

"Oh, well, I've had CNN on since you left, even though it's been on all the other stations, too. The plane left Turkey and flew to Tunisia, and then commandoes stormed it. You should see, so much chaos..."

"My God," Max sighed.

"All they've said is that all the hijackers are dead, but so are some of the passengers. Isn't it terrible? I thought after that flight 847 thing security was so tight this would never happen again.... I'm really worried about you flying home, baby."

"I'll be fine, Fran. No pun intended." Max paused, slightly proud of himself for coming up with a joke despite his current state of mind. "Can you somehow get a hold of C.C.'s mother, or brother, or someone? Let them know what's going on?"

"Will do. Oh, and Max? There are a bunch of reporters and news vans outside. Apparently they found out that Miss Babcock works here. I haven't spoken to anyone, but they keep ringing the doorbell, and the children are getting upset. They're afraid to leave the house."

"Look in my Rolodex, under P. You'll find the name of a private security firm...Preston, I believe...we've used in the past when we've brought in VIPs for shows. They know me, have them send some men over to keep the place secure."

Fran scribbled on a notepad as Max spoke. "Got it." A pause. "I miss you so much, Sweetie. Take care of yourself."

"I'll be home before you know it," Max replied. "I love you, Fran."

"I love you, too, Max."

Niles approached Max after he'd finished his call.

"Miss Babcock is sleeping now, sir. There's not much else we can do tonight. May I suggest we retire for the evening, so we can be here bright and early tomorrow?"

Max sighed wearily. "Sounds like a plan." He dialed the number of the American Embassy and requested the limo. Within the hour, the two left the hospital via a service entrance, to avoid the press, and soon found themselves ensconced in a suite at the Hotel Amira, courtesy of the U.S. embassy.

After a room service dinner that may have been delectable, but neither man would've noticed, they parted company and retired to their respective bedrooms.

As Niles bedded down, after everything that had happened, after talking with brain surgeons and government diplomats, the words that kept reverberating in his head were those of C.C. Babcock: "Thank you."

"Thank _you _C.C.," he thought wearily as he sunk into the pillows. "Thank you for giving me a glimpse of what's inside the Ice Princess." As Niles drifted off to sleep, he knew that whatever special care she required, whatever it took to make her feel "normal" again, to forget that this ever happened to her, he would be there. By her side. Forever.


	2. Homeward Bound

C.C. Babcock had been hospitalized for three days, and on the fourth, she was finally allowed to get out of bed and walk around. To her mind, the best part of this was being able to go to the bathroom on her own.

"If there is one great equalizer in the world." she thought to herself, "it is the bedpan."

She shuffled awkwardly that first day to the bathroom, her sense of balance not what it used to be. She attended to matters, and, as she stood at the sink, washing her hands, she looked up into the mirror. She had to grasp onto the sink to keep from swooning as she studied her image. She had two black eyes, her right cheek was bruised and swollen, and she sported a neck brace.

"Oh my God..." she sighed as she gazed in the mirror. "I look just as bad as I feel...."

As she walked haltingly back to her bed, the thought occurred to her that Niles and Maxwell had seen her in this condition. C.C. Babcock was not used to being seen in anything but her professional persona – elegantly dressed and perfectly made up. She crawled back into her hospital bed feeling both physical and emotional pain..."oh, geez, why did they let them in when I looked like this...."

A bit later, Dr. Kemel sat by her beside to chat.

"How are you feeling?" he asked kindly.

"I feel like hell, what did you expect?" C.C. asked petulantly.

Dr. Kemel knew to expect her moods and continued benignly.

"Do you have any physical complaints? Do you hurt anywhere? Tell me what you feel."

C.C. lay still for a few moments and tried to concentrate.

"My head is a mass of sharp daggers stabbing into my brain, and it's worse when I move," she told the doctor.

"That's understandable," he smiled, taking her hand. "Imagine an egg. The yolk is surrounded by fluid. Much like the brain. It is surrounded by fluid between itself and the skull."

C.C. tried to concentrate on his accented English and his strange analogy.

"When we opened your skull to operate, much of the protective fluid was lost. So when you move, your brain is bouncing about your skull without cushion," he said, looking pleased with his explanation.

"Oh, lovely." C.C. replied, picturing those 'this is your brain on drugs' commercials. "When will it get back to normal?"

"Your head is regenerating fluid as we speak, and within a few weeks, you'll have replenished the protective cushion. In the meantime, we can give you medication to help alleviate the pain."

"Well, then, lay it on me, doc, because my head hurts like a son of a gun."

Dr. Kemel made notes on C.C.'s chart.

"The nurse will be in presently with some medication. In the meantime, do you feel up to some visitors?"

"Sure," C.C. sighed, figuring Maxwell and Niles must be tired of hanging around this Third World hospital. "Send them in."

"C.C.," Maxwell said as he approached her bedside, "the doctors say you'll be ready to leave here the day after tomorrow."

"I'm sure that pleases the both of you," she replied dryly. "I'm sorry you've had to stay here as long as you have...however long it's been." She tried to concentrate, but she wasn't sure how long she'd been in the hospital.

Niles stepped forward and stood at the head of her bed.

"How are you feeling, Miss Babcock? Can we get anything for you?"

C.C.'s defiant exterior melted somewhat as she looked at him.

"I'm OK, thanks. Just thirsty right now...."

Niles dashed from the room and returned a few minutes later, bearing a glass of ice water with a straw. He held it for C.C. as she sipped.

"Ahhh..." C.C. sighed after a prolonged drag on the straw, "that feels so good." She paused then looked up at Niles. Their eyes met. "Thank you." A beat. "Scrubbing Bubbles," she added as an afterthought.

Glancing at Maxwell she said: "Why don't you go home? I'm OK and I don't want to ruin your Christmas. There's nothing you can do here."

"You're not ruining anything," Max assured her, "and we'll all be home in plenty of time for Christmas. Besides," he added with a mock sad face, "I thought our visits were making you feel better."

C.C. felt agitated and angry. "Why did this have to happen? I'm screwing up everyone's holiday." She felt guilt in addition to her physical pain. Christmas was just another day to her, but Max had a family.

"Miss Babcock," Niles said, reaching out and taking her hand, "as much as you like to think so, time isn't standing still for you. Christmas will come and go whether you're here or at home." He paused, then added softly, "it just won't be a holiday until you come home." He cleared his throat and spoke with a new definiteness. "So just get used to it and let us know when you decide to get your well-padded toochis out of this bed."

"Scullery maid," C.C. hissed.

"Black-eyed Susan," he responded. She winced, thinking of her twin shiners.

Their exchange was interrupted by a nurse who suggested that the patient could do with some rest. Max and Niles took their leave and headed back to the hotel.

C.C., meanwhile, underwent the ordeal of having her head bandages removed. She was surprised to see after the unwrapping that most of her hair was still intact. Intact, but gamy. After her wound was redressed, a nurse gave her a dry shampoo. The next time C.C. saw herself in the bathroom mirror, her hair was lumpy and misshapen, but still there, save for a chunk over her right shoulder. She stood there for some time, examining herself in the mirror. Suddenly there was a nurse behind her, guiding her back to her bed.

"You have such lovely blonde hair," the nurse said as she eased C.C. into her bed. "It should be easy to cover up the hole after the bandage comes off."

C.C. pulled up the covers and sighed. "Speaking of hair, why did they only lop part of mine off?"

"Lop?" the nurse smiled in confusion.

"Lop off, cut, whatever...why didn't they shave my head?" Truth be told, she was actually relieved when the bandages had been removed. In addition to her physical pain, she'd been aching deep inside somewhere, secretly trying to picture herself as a cue ball.

"Oh," the nurse nodded her head, understanding now. "It was a request."

"A request? No one asked me anything," C.C. replied angrily, knowing she'd been in no shape to make decisions when she'd arrived.

"One of your friends, I believe. The yellow-haired man. I heard him talking to the doctor about it." With that, the nurse left, with instructions to C.C. to ring if she needed anything.

"Oh." C.C. was speechless for a moment, which was a rare occurrence for her. "Niles?" she thought. "He bothered to talk to the doctor about something like that?" She closed her eyes, but didn't sleep. What did it mean? An actual act of kindness from the Whisk Broom? She'd grudgingly admitted to herself on the plane that she had feelings for the butler, but could it be he had some for her, too? Her head was aching and spinning. "He hates me," she thought, "he's made that more than clear. And yet..." Exhaustion finally overtook her and she dozed restlessly, dreaming of a butler that manhandled and overthrew many men with guns single-handedly...

Back at the hotel, Max and Niles were preparing to check out, finally. They'd received word that C.C. was well enough to be moved, and transport had been arranged via an Air Force cargo plane. Both men were worn from lack of sleep and stress.

They each packed in silence and then met while the bell boy collected their bags.

"Well, it'll be good to get back home, won't it?" Max said in a conversational effort.

"Yes," Niles responded, his thoughts miles away in the hospital room.

They met C.C. in her hospital room, ready to escort her to the waiting ambulance. C.C. emerged from the bathroom dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and matching fleece pants, thanks to Niles, who had had the foresight to buy them for her from the hotel gift shop. He'd realized that C.C,'s clothes had been cut off of her, and she certainly would not want to return home in an ill-fitting hospital gown.

"What's the matter, were they out of the shirts that said 'I'm with Stupid'?," she'd asked sardonically when presented with the outfit. Immediately after the words escaped her lips, she mentally kicked herself. "What's wrong with me? He was being genuinely nice, and I dump all over him."

"Is everyone ready, then?" asked an attaché sent by the American Embassy.

C.C. sighed heavily, with a head that was pounding. "I guess so."

She was helped into a wheelchair, despite her protests, and wheeled to a service entrance where the Embassy had a limousine waiting. Despite the supposed secrecy of their departure, there were about a dozen reporters and photographers waiting near the exit, all shouting questions and snapping pictures as Niles guided C.C. into the limo, and Maxwell brought up the rear.

Everyone was quiet for most of the ride to the Air Force Base, when C.C. broke the silence and asked "any idea what happened to my luggage?"

"It probably burn—" Max began, but was interrupted by Niles.

"Have you heard any information regarding the outcome of your flight?"

"Not a word," C.C. sighed, vaguely thinking of Randall and Victoria and Hayim. In the back of her mind, the question nudged her – why did she survive and the others didn't?

"We haven't either," Niles responded, casting a sidelong glance at Max. "Perhaps they will notify us once things have been resolved." Niles wisely decided that now was not the time to inform C.C. of the massacre that had eventually ended the hijacking of Flight 181.

The cargo plane that took the trio back to the US was not luxurious, but it served the purpose. There were a few seats, two long benches, and a netted-rope hammock that was suspended from the roof for C.C. to rest in during the flight. She was doing well, all things considered, and was able to sit up and walk for short periods before becoming overwhelmed with fatigue. Headaches still plagued her, and she looked forward to her arrival at Walter Reed where they would at last provide her with more pain medication.

"I spoke to your mother," Maxwell said to her mid-flight. "She's quite worried and sends her best wishes."

"Hope she didn't strain herself," C.C. muttered.

"Your brother Noel wants to come see you when we get to Washington..."

"Maxwell? Do me a favor. Tell everyone I'm OK, but I'm not up to having visitors for a while, OK? I'd rather be left alone for a while."

C.C. sighed heavily. The last thing she wanted was sympathy and pity. She felt like crap, but she'd get over it. No one ever saw C.C. Babcock other than at her best, dressed for success and ready to take on the world. It was bad enough Niles and Max saw her bruised and weak; she'd be damned if anyone else would see her that way.

Walter Reed was another circus, with the press out in force, elbowing one another to snap a photo or shout out a question. Niles protectively took off his sport jacket and gently wrapped it around C.C., shielding her from the cameras.

She was quickly checked into a private room and left to get some rest. Max immediately called Fran to advise her of their arrival.

"Thank God you're home safely!" she exclaimed with feeling. "How is Miss Babcock? Can we come up and see her? The kids have been so worried...."

"She's doing better," Max assured her. "And don't bother coming here, she doesn't want visitors right now. But I'll be home tonight, and I'll tell you all about it."

"Oh!" Fran squealed loud enough to turn many heads in the waiting room, "I didn't know she was doing that good! I can't wait to see you!"

"No, she'll be here until the day after tomorrow," Max explained. "Niles has volunteered to stay here with her until then. I've got work to catch up on....plus I miss you, of course." He smiled to himself, knowing he was purposely needling Fran.

"Yeah, I've got yer 'miss you', Mistah," Fran cackled. "It'll be so wonderful to see you. I've been sleeping with one of your undershirts, just to get a whiff of your cologne, you know."

"Soon you'll 'whiff' the real thing, Darling," Max purred. "I'll fly back up here when C.C. is discharged. In the meantime, keep my side of the bed warm...see you soon!"

"Love you!" Fran drawled.

"I love you, too, Miss Fine," Max sighed.

The limo pulled up slowly in front of the house, trying to weave its way in between news vans and reporters.

"We can try and make a dash for the side door," Max said, peering out the window.

"I don't care," C.C. sighed. She was tired and cranky. "Just point me in the direction of a door."

Maxwell and Niles formed a protective shield around C.C. and the trio pushed through the crowd and up to the front door.

"Home at last," Niles smiled as they entered.

He was almost knocked off his feet by the enthusiastic greetings of Fran and the children.

"Welcome home!" Fran exclaimed as she kissed his cheek for the third time. "It seems like forevah since we've seen you."

The group became subdued suddenly and shyly addressed Miss Babcock, who'd been standing there awkwardly during the homecoming activities.

"Miss Babcock, so glad to have you here, how are you feeling?" Fran asked, taking C.C.'s arm. She looked at the bandage on the lower back of C.C.'s head and felt afraid to touch her.

"I'm OK, thank you," C.C. responded. She would've denied it under oath, but at the moment she was feeling jealous about the warm welcome Niles had received.

"I'm glad you're OK," Grace stepped forward bashfully, "we were so worried. But we didn't talk to the press!" she added triumphantly.

"Thanks, I appreciate that, G...um, Gertie."

C.C. edged forward and took a seat on the living room sofa. Suddenly it seemed like everyone was hovering over her.

"Can I get you anything?"

"What can I do?"

"Would you like a snack?"

The voices all blended into a blur, and C.C. closed her eyes. Niles stepped forward and ran interference.

"I think what Miss Babcock needs right now is some rest. They put her through her paces at the hospital before they let her leave," he smiled.

As C.C. headed upstairs, leaning heavily on the railing, she recalled her time at Walter Reed. So many questions, so many tests. Why wouldn't they just leave her alone?

Niles climbed the stairs one step behind her, lest she fell. He tried to be subtle, but C.C. knew what he was doing. She was too tired to complain, though; it seemed to take all her concentration just to hold on to the banister and work her way upstairs.

She entered the guest room and sat down on the bed to catch her breath and get her bearings.

"Naturally, we'll have some of your belongings brought over from your apartment...your landlord was kind enough to give us a key, since your purse was left behind." He still didn't think it wise to mention the inferno that was the end of the hijacking.

"Any excuse to paw through my underwear, eh, Hazel?" C.C. replied in a half-hearted attempt at humor.

"Trust me, Miss Babcock," he responded, "if I was _that _interested in your undergarments, I could've visited the special order department of Gotham Tent and Awning long ago."

"Well, I'm only sorry that Joe Boxer doesn't have a Jane Boxer division for your shopping convenience," C.C. snorted as she rose and headed towards the bathroom. "I'm going to freshen up...."

"You'll find a nightgown on the back of the door that Miss Fine left for you," Niles called to her. "I'll leave you to your toilette. If you need anything else, just howl. No need to wait for a full moon."

C.C. used the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and splashed some water on her face. She glanced at the so-called nightgown left by Nanny Fine. Hot pink, and mostly lace. "For heaven's sake," C.C. thought, "is that all that is on her mind? Seduction?" She left the nightie on the hook and longed for her own well-worn, flannel pajamas. As she started to leave the guest bathroom, she noticed a hamper in the corner. She ambled over and peeked inside. Right on top was a man's T-shirt. She lifted it out and inspected it.

"Doesn't smell bad," she thought to herself, sniffing the armpit area of the shirt. "In fact, it smells like... Niles." She paused for a moment and decided it was her head injury that was making her irrational...she slid the T-shirt over her nude form. It almost hung to her knees, but it felt comfortable. And the smell of after-shave seemed....well, comforting. She climbed under the covers of the bed, thinking to herself, "what in the hell has happened to me...wearing some man's dirty undershirt?"

C.C. fell into a restless sleep, her dreams haunted by her Walter Reed experience. The endless questions...she was sitting in a room with a woman. The woman wore a white jacket. She was showing C.C. pictures on cards and asking questions.

"What is this?" the therapist asked, holding up a picture of a wristwatch.

"A watch," C.C. replied.

"And can you tell me where you wear a watch?" the smiling therapist asked.

"Here," C.C. replied, pointing to her wrist. "By your...pulse."

The therapist wrote something down on a chart, which aggravated C.C. "Does that mean I said something wrong?" she wondered. "Why won't they tell me? Tell me if I'm OK, tell me what I need to do...?"

"What is this?" the therapist asked, showing C.C. a picture of a slice of watermelon.

"It's..."C.C. said, concentrating intently, "red inside, with seeds...green on the outside..."

"A watermelon?"

"Yes, yes, watermelon, that's it."

C.C.'s medication finally kicked in, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Max and Fran were in the kitchen, sharing some late-night cheesecake.

"How is Miss Babcock, really?" Fran finally asked.

"Pretty well, considering what she's been through," Maxwell replied. "Her doctor at Walter Reed gave me the name of neurologist on 29th street that specializes in traumatic head injuries. He feels that she needs further therapy there."

"Really?" Fran said, idly poking at the graham cracker crumbs on her plate. "What does he mean, 'further therapy'? What's wrong with her? I mean, she seemed pretty much OK...."

"I'll have to look at her initial test results...Niles has the folder...something about some cognitive delay..."

"The poor thing," Fran commiserated, "She's going to stay here, right?"

"Of course," Max replied. "We told her, well, insisted, before we left Walter Reed that she would stay here during her recuperation. "We'll hire a private nurse if necessary, but I have a feeling...."

"What kind of feeling?" Fran asked when Max's voice trailed off.

"I can't say for sure, of course," he said with careful deliberation, "but I believe Niles will be more than willing to minister to C.C."

"Niles?!" Fran snorted. "The two of them are like cats in a sack."

"Again, I could be wrong, but while we were in Turkey I got the impression that our Niles had feelings for our blonde Ice Queen."

"Well," Fran said, rinsing her plate and stacking it in the dishwasher, "if that's true, I thank heaven she's here to recover, because I've _really_ gotta see this!"


	3. Home for the Holidays

It was already late Saturday afternoon when C.C. strode down the stairs. Those muscle relaxants she'd been given for her neck really knocked her out; she normally never slept during the day. As she stepped off the bottom stair, her nose was greeted with the smell of evergreen. Gripping the railing, she looked up towards the living room and saw the unadorned Christmas tree in its stand. C.C. paused for a moment to take in the scenario, and then slowly realized it was Christmas Eve.

"Well, good afternoon, sleepyhead," Fran greeted her.

C.C. walked over to the sofa and eased herself down. "Sorry...guessed I dozed off."

Niles entered the room carrying a silver tray with mugs of Irish coffee. C.C. looked at the cups overflowing with whipped cream and murmured, "Mmmm, those look good." It had been what, two weeks, since she'd had a drink and she really hadn't missed it until now.

Fran and Max took their cups from the tray.

"Miss Margaret?" Niles said, bowing slightly. The oldest one took a mug and squealed slightly because it was hot.

"Those look good," C.C. said louder this time.

"Just a moment, and I'll get you a refreshment," Niles said, casting her a sidelong glance. He returned in a few moments with a cup of hot cocoa, topped with whipped cream.

C.C. took a sip, hoping at least for a hint of Kahlua. She crinkled her nose and observed "it's just hot chocolate."

"Miss Babcock," Niles admonished her, "you know that your medications contraindicate alcohol."

C.C. shot him a poisonous look and slumped back into the couch cushions.

"Damn him," she thought to herself. "That's what I get for allowing him to come to my doctor appointments." She paused in her thought process for a moment and took another sip. "Allow, hell. I had no choice, no one asked my opinion."

She bitterly recalled her first visit to the neurologist, Jung Shin, that had been recommended to her. Niles, Maxwell and Fran had all accompanied her. "What is this?" she'd asked petulantly at the time, "a gang appointment?"

In any case, the doctor had run what seemed like a zillion tests, and one of the results was he would not allow her to drive for the next six months, "just in case."

"Just in case what?" she asked with annoyance.

"Just in case there is seizure activity within the brain. With an injury such as yours, some symptoms do not present themselves immediately. It's just a basic precaution that we restrict your driving until we get at least six months' worth of normal EEGs."

"Oh, for crying out loud..." C.C. moaned. She thought she was on the road to recovery. How much of her life was this incident going to take away?

After Dr. Shin's initial report, Niles had appointed himself unofficial chaperone. He had accompanied her to her two subsequent appointments, and was aware of Dr. Shin's recommendations.

"After the holidays, we'll want to evaluate you for adjustment difficulties. We'll run some routine tests for cognitive responses..."

C.C.'s mind wandered as the doctor kept talking. "Must he go on?" she thought. "I'm here, I'm alive, get over it. Can't I just get on with my life?"

Niles, on the other hand, was paying rapt attention and asking questions. Previous tests at Walter Reed had indicated some problems with cognitive delay, her sense of balance was somewhat affected, and there was the possibility of seizures. A lot of the diagnosis was simply "wait and see." There was also the physical therapy for her neck, which had been injured in the fall. Not to mention the constant intrusion of the press at her every turn, asking for an interview, every one of which she steadfastly declined. In the meantime, Miss Babcock was on a regimen of medications, a schedule of which Niles kept closely at hand.

And so, based on the laundry list of pills she was taking, Niles had taken it upon himself to restrict her alcohol. "He should only know what it feels like to have a hole in your head," C.C. thought bitterly, as she watched the others revel in their spiked coffees.

The urgent ringing of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts.

"I'll get it!" the youngest one shouted.

When Grace opened the door, she was greeted with a Federal Express driver and a two-wheeled dolly loaded with boxes.

"Sign here," he said in a bored monotone as he thrust the automated clipboard into her hands.

"I didn't order anything, who ordered something?" Fran asked as she walked to the front door. She looked at the manifest. "These packages are from London....." She looked up questioningly at C.C.

C.C. squirmed uncomfortably on the sofa. "Um...those are Christmas presents. I shipped them from England." Pause. "Well, I wasn't about to schlep them across the Continent," she quickly justified herself, feeling the eyes of everyone upon her.

Fran signed for the packages and the driver left.

"Cripes, I didn't expect overnight delivery considering the holidays and all, but to take this long...." C.C. griped.

"I'm sure Customs and heightened security had something to do with the delay," Niles interjected.

"Whatever," C.C. shrugged. "I'm sorry they're not gift-wrapped, but due to airline regulations....anyway, just put them under the tree."

C.C. was not used to holiday merriment and felt uncomfortable with all the attention directed towards her. She felt the need to explain.

"I finished business at the Hammersmith Odeon in London early. I stopped at Harrods to kill time until my flight."

What C.C. didn't mention was how embarrassed she'd been last Christmas, when she'd been invited in the last hours of the season to spend the holiday at the Sheffield home. She'd managed to buy gift certificates for most everyone, except for Nanny Fine's mother, who had arrived unexpectedly. C.C. cringed inwardly when she remembered writing a last-minute check as a gift for Sylvia. She had resolved at that time to never be caught short again.

"Miss Babcock," Fran enthused as she placed the packages under the tree, "you did something nice, no need to apologize."

"I plead temporary insanity," C.C. lamely tried to defend herself.

Early in the evening, Brighton and Maggie returned from wherever they'd been, and the official decorating of the Christmas tree began in earnest.

C.C. was in the office, sorting through a stack of scripts. Maxwell had admonished her earlier that business was pretty much on hold until after the New Year, and that she should take it easy, but she didn't have anything else to do. She was tired of watching TV, and sick of people treating her like an invalid. Niles in particular had been hovering over her, acting as though she were made of eggshells. Truth be told, she appreciated his attention, and looked forward to his fussing over her, but on the other hand, the logical side of her brain (what was left of it) nagged that he was only being nice because he pitied her.

"He was never this attentive to me before," she thought to herself. "Does he think he's scoring points in Heaven or something by being kind to me?"

Her mind tired by her conflicting thoughts, C.C. left the office and walked into the living room with the intent of going upstairs. Her attention, however, was distracted by a shout from the littlest one.

"Miss Babcock," Grace called, "are you going to help us decorate the tree?"

"Umm..." C.C. hesitated, looking at the expectant faces. "Sure, I guess, for a little while."

She settled herself on the sofa once again, and soon found herself in the middle of a serious lighting argument. Brighton had installed himself at the controls and had the tree lights blinking, then twinkling, then racing, then strobing. He cackled with glee at the multi-colored changing patterns.

"B!" Nanny Fine interjected. "This is a Christmas tree, not an Iron Butterfly concert. Enough with the psychedelic effects."

C.C. stifled the comment that immediately sprung to her lips about what would a Jewish woman know about Christmas tree decorations...instead, she accepted a box of ornaments from the little one....Gretel?...and proceeded to install tiny metal hooks into the top of each one. She handed them off to a succession of outstretched hands until the tree was completely decked out in its holiday finery.

Two hours later, Maxwell dimmed the house lights while Niles and the boy plugged in the Christmas tree lights. The effect was dazzling. C.C. looked around the room and decided that she'd never seen so many holiday ornaments and decorations outside of Macy's. Niles had prepared eggnog for everyone and was in the midst of serving when C.C.'s attention wandered. She got up from the sofa and wandered to the Nativity scene that was set up on the sideboard. She stood there silently for several moments before Niles approached and asked if she was OK.

"Yes," C.C. replied, without turning around. The wooden stable had stirred up some long-forgotten memory in the back of her mind...."I was just thinking about..." her voice drifted off...

"About...?" Niles asked softly, aware of the far-off look in her eyes.

"My Nanny Bobo. She had a crèche set up in her room every year....I used to go there when no one was around. I made up little plays with the statues - the donkeys and the ..." she paused for a moment while she struggled for the right word. She finally sighed in frustration and held up a figurine. "What's this called? The animal with the hump?"

"Camel," Niles prompted softly. His heart ached for her. He could only imagine how frustrating it was for C.C., easily tossing out a word like "crèche", but not remembering something simple like what a camel was. Dr. Shin had told him that these lapses were typical for her type of injury, but that didn't make it any easier for Niles to witness.

"Camel, right. That's what I was going to say." She stopped speaking and gazed at the Nativity scene, smiling. Normally, picturing Miss Babcock playing with tiny horsies would have been the perfect opening for a cutting remark from Niles, but he sensed her sincerity and remained silent, standing protectively behind her.

"Nanny Bobo's figures were very old, and hand-painted," C.C. recalled, gently picking up the baby Jesus. "Joseph looked worried and not a little bit proud..." She seemed to be speaking to herself.

Niles put his hands on C.C.'s shoulders and glanced at the side of her head. He'd never seen her so vulnerable, so soft, so emotional before. He was reluctant to speak; he didn't want to disturb her reverie.

C.C. stood silent for a moment and then visibly shook herself back to reality. "What time is it?" she asked, placing the statue back in the manger. "Get me my pills, would you; I'm calling it a night.," she said dismissively, heading upstairs.

C.C. awakened early the next day, showered and dressed and headed downstairs. She was a bit surprised to see everyone else already seated at the breakfast table. Although, she sniffed to herself, Nanny Fine and the children were still in pajamas.

"The hired help doesn't get Christmas off?" she asked Niles as he brought in another platter of waffles.

"Of course," he smiled. "Today's breakfast was a cooperative effort between Miss Fine, Miss Margaret, and me. It's up to you to decide who prepared what."

"Russian roulette for breakfast," C.C. grumbled.

Once everyone had had their fill of scrambled eggs with cheese, sausages and Belgian waffles, they adjourned to the living room. Maxwell and the boy designated themselves "Santas" and distributed the gifts one at a time. C.C. surreptitiously kept an eye out for when the Fed Ex boxes were opened. After all, she'd actually gone to some thought and trouble to choose those gifts.

As it turned out, they were all thrilled, or at least gave a credible performance. She'd gotten both Maxwell and Niles dress shirts from Turnbull and Asser; as well as an engraved Sterling silver cigar cutter for Max; a cashmere pashmina for the oldest girl; a leather bomber jacket for the boy; Prada boots for Nanny Fine; a leather-bound copy of _Psychology of the Unconscious_ by Carl Jung for the little one who seemed so bookish and all; an antique silver menorah for Sylvia; and an Oxford University tweed sport coat for Niles. She wondered now if her deliberate purchase of separate gifts for Maxwell and Nanny Fine seemed obvious, as opposed to a single gift to them as a couple, since they were now engaged. She'd been making her own personal statement when she bought them, but now she felt a bit uncomfortable with the gesture.

Niles had slipped on his new sport coat and went to the mirror. He turned and struck a few poses, thinking no one was looking. He paused suddenly and looked back into the room, meeting C.C.'s eyes. She had a hint of a smile on her lips. He walked back into the living room, still wearing the dapper jacket and unconsciously smoothing it down the front. The rich tweed added an incongruous dash of elegance to his flannel shirt and sweat pants.

"Does it fit OK?" she asked, somewhat shyly.

"Perfect," he smiled, still looking down and admiring the fabric. "How ever did you know the correct size?"

Embarrassed, C.C. spoke hastily: "Um, I just told the salesman to picture a cross between Benny Hill and Alfred Hitchcock." She certainly would never admit to him that she'd once seen the tag inside of his suit jacket...that he'd left on the back of the chair in the office...that she'd tried on when he was in another room....just to smell his after-shave.

"Well, however you managed it, thank you very much," he smiled.

"You're welcome," C.C. responded, her heart sinking. He was so damned _polite_ to her these days. It not only emphasized her injury, in her own mind anyway, it also made him seem so...distant. However bizarre it may have been, she realized that she never felt as close to another human as when the two of them were trading insults. In a perverse way, when he zinged her, it at least seem like he _cared_. This new kinder, gentler Niles was completely unsettling to her.

"Frannie!" Sylvia's shrill voice brought C.C.'s attention back to the festivities at hand. "Save that fancy schmancy box! I can use it to wrap your Aunt Frieda's birthday present in. When she sees 'Harrods', she'll plotz!"

"Thank you all again," C.C. said to the room, holding her gift from the family in her lap and rummaging around inside it. They had given her a beautiful Vaqueta leather briefcase, monogrammed with her initials.

"Is the color OK?" Gracie asked, smiling up at C.C.

"Perfect," C.C. smiled at the little girl. She wasn't real big on kids, but this little one had long ago somehow charmed her way into C.C.'s heart. So earnest and mature beyond her years...she reminded C.C. of herself at that age. "There are compartments inside for my cell phone, my laptop, **and** my PDA. And this leather....it's like....butter!"

Everyone laughed, and slowly the morning wound down. Grace and Fran began collecting the discarded wrappings, with Sylvia chattering in the background about saving the big pieces, because "they could be used next year." Niles and Maggie adjourned to the kitchen to get the turkey in the oven and start all the various preparations necessary for the lavish dinner that was planned. Max and Brighton were engrossed in some new Playstation game that B had received, and C.C. felt a bit left out. She got up and wandered into the kitchen.

"Miss Babcock, are you lost?" Niles inquired as she entered.

"Very funny, Hazel," she replied. "I just wondered if...um, well, if you needed any help in here."

Margaret and Niles exchanged glances with each other. "Must be a sign of the Apocalypse," Niles muttered.

"Excuse me?" C.C. asked, even though she'd clearly heard him. It had been so long since he'd insulted her, she just wanted to hear it again.

"Never mind," he replied, setting down a large bowl on the table. C.C. sat down, and Niles placed several loaves of bread in front of her.

"You can tear this," he told her.

"Tear? What? The wrappers open?" C.C. was genuinely confused.

"Your domesticity is showing again, Miss Babcock," Niles clucked at her. "No, you open the wrapper, take out the slices of bread, tear them into small pieces, and put them in the bowl."

"Why?" she inquired.

"For the stuffing. Did you think the Stove Top fairy brought stuffing?"

C.C. smiled despite herself. This was a bit of the old Niles.

"Speaking of stuffing, Mr. Clean, why don't _you_ stuff it?"

"Niles," Margaret, drat her, interrupted, "you shouldn't pick on Miss Babcock when she's nice enough to offer to help."

Niles looked at Maggie, who was gesturing with her eyes, as if saying "she's sick, knock it off."

"So, Miss Babcock, I suppose you're excited about tomorrow?" Niles asked, changing the subject.

C.C. sighed and started ripping up slices of bread. "Thrilled," she replied sarcastically. For tomorrow her brother Noel and her sister D.D. were coming to visit. Through no fault of her own, mind you. The butler had been in contact with them. C.C. thought she'd made it more than clear that she was fine, there was no reason for her family to interrupt whatever holiday plans they may have had, but obviously, no one was listening to her. She decided she'd better get to bed early that night so she'd look rested and healthy tomorrow. Then maybe everyone would leave her alone.


	4. DD and Noel

December 26th. Boxing Day to Niles, Maxwell and those folks across the bridge from Buffalo. C.C. got out of bed and paused for a moment, wondering why her stomach was all knotted up. She ambled her way into the shower and then remembered; Noel and D.D. were coming today.

"Great," thought C.C., sticking her head under the shower nozzle. The doctor had finally given her the OK for her to get her entire head wet, and it was a wonderful feeling. "I don't need their pity. Neither one has been around to visit me in ages. Why else would they come?"

After breakfast, C.C. returned to her room and selected a peach-colored linen suit. The color and fabric were a bit light for winter, but the brightness of the jacket lifted her spirits and complemented her complexion. She applied her makeup and then carefully styled her hair, taking pains to cover the shaved spot as best she could. She sighed and appraised herself in the full-length mirror. "As good as it's gonna get," she decided, and headed downstairs.

C.C. settled herself in the living room, where she noted that Niles had already ignited a cheery blaze in the fireplace, and waited. Nanny Fine drifted in and complimented her, "Miss Babcock, don't you look fab!" Fran instinctively rearranged the magazines on the coffee table and then went to the mirror and smoothed her miniskirt. "It's going to be so nice to see your brother, again," Fran continued, still eyeing her reflection, "oh, Ni-yules! I think I heard a car pull up!"

The doorbell rang and Niles materialized to answer it. C.C. heard them before she saw them.

"Merry Belated Christmas, everyone!" Noel's voice boomed. Oh, God, C.C. wondered, was he drunk already at this hour? He bounded into the living room and swept C.C. up into his arms in a bear hug.

"Cheer down a bit, brother," C.C. said to him, stretching down with her feet to touch the floor. He released her from his grasp and read her expression.

"Just high on holiday spirit, sis," he grinned.

D.D. entered the room, chatting animatedly with Fran, who was flipping through a large volume of some sort. They both paused and looked up at the same time, as if they were surprised to see C.C. in the room.

"Miss Babcock," Nanny Fine gushed, "look what your sista brought with her! These pictures are just too ca-yute!"

D.D. hugged C.C. lightly and kissed her on the cheek. Everyone took a seat and Niles took drink orders as they settled in. C.C. looked over at Fran and realized the big book that so enraptured her was a photo album.

"D.D.," she asked, a bit irritated, "why did you bring that, for heaven's sake? Where the hell did you even find it, for that matter?" The Babcock family was hardly sentimental; they gathered annually to have a formal portrait taken, but as far as snapshots went...well, C.C. couldn't recall posing for any.

"Well, Miles phone me late yesterday and said you'd been feeling a bit nostalgic...."

"Niles," C.C. corrected.

"Yes, well, he called and said maybe I had something sentimental that I could bring for you. So I had dear old Frothingham root around in the attic, and he found this."

"We thought maybe some pictures would help trigger your memory," Noel added.

"There's nothing wrong with my memory," C.C. spat out angrily. What right did that Scrubbing Bubble have to phone her family? Nostalgia, her ass. If he hadn't been so sneaky, creeping up behind her at the Nativity scene...

"Well," Maxwell interjected, clearing off a large space on the coffee table, "whatever the reason, I know we'd all love to see some of C.C.'s baby pictures, wouldn't we?"

Everyone scooted their chairs closer, and Fran laid the large album out flat on the table. The three children positioned themselves on the floor in front of it, eager to see Miss Babcock as a kid. Brighton could hardly believe she'd ever been a child; he was certain she'd been born wearing a conservative, three-piece suit.

Niles dispensed the libations and then stood out of the way, but within gawking range as D.D. turned the pages.

"How old were you there?" Grace asked C.C., pointing to a snapshot.

Before C.C. could answer, D.D. said "that was taken on the Vineyard, at our summer home, back in, oh, what year was that?"

"We don't remember," C.C. stated evenly, eyeing her sister.

D.D. caught C.C.'s meaning and quickly backtracked. She realized that as much fun as it might be to reveal her sister's age, doing so would also tell how old she herself was.

"Oh, it wasn't so very long ago, when we were all young," she breezily replied.

"Who is that chubby little boy lifting his shirt over his head?" Maxwell asked, indicating a candid picture taken on the beach.

"Um," Noel responded, trying not to laugh, "that's C.C."

The Sheffield family howled with laughter, and C.C. stood up and announced that they'd all seen quite enough family photos.

"No we haven't!" Fran cried, and continued flipping pages.

"Well," C.C. said, looking over Fran's shoulder, "if you're going to persist...I think a certain handmaid should note my hair color in these pictures." She raised her eyes and glared at Niles. "I **told** you it was natural."

Niles glanced over her shoulder at the towheaded child in the photo.

"Hmmm...I wasn't aware until now that Johnson & Johnson made No More Tears peroxide...."

"Why don't you go play with your friend Les?" C.C. snapped.

"Les?" Niles asked, momentarily confused.

"Lestoil!" C.C. hissed with an evil grin. God, she felt really alive for the first time in a month. For a few minutes, it seemed like nothing had changed, that life was business as usual.

"Oh, what a beautiful gown," Maggie exclaimed at an 8 X 10 photo of C.C. in a lavish white dress.

"That was taken at C.C.'s coming out party. Remember that, Ceece?" D.D. asked over her shoulder.

C.C. had come out? Well, Fran had to admit to herself, it didn't completely surprise her to find out that Miss Babcock was a lesbian.

"That was very brave of you, Miss Babcock, considering that era. Boy, I guess you Blue Bloods will have a party for anything, huh?"

The others looked at Fran with confusion, but C.C., having known the nanny for so long, caught her inference immediately.

"Nanny Fine," C.C. said patiently, as if she was talking to a child, "I did not come out of the closet, I came out at a debutante cotillion. It was a standard rite of passage for young women of our set."

"Oh," Fran said, trying to save face among the muffled giggles, "of course. Sort of like a Bat Mitzvah, but without all the fountain pens."

"There's D.D. and C.C. at one of their horse things," Noel observed, repositioning a photo on the page.

"Not just a 'horse thing,' it was ....oh, something at Saratoga," C.C. corrected him.

"Dressage," D.D. muttered quietly.

"Right, Dressage at Saratoga," C.C. said. She reached over and picked up the photograph. "Mother insisted that D.D. be in the picture, too, even though she didn't win anything."

"Big deal," D.D. snorted. "Daddy always said that if C.C. couldn't marry her horse, she'd stay single her whole life. Guess he was right."

"I took first place in Youth Reserve, and third place overall," C.C. reminisced, ignoring her sister. She placed the picture back into the album and stared ahead into space for a moment. "When I was in Vienna a couple weeks ago, I watched the Lipizzaner Stallions practicing. They were just gorgeous." She sighed. "When I was a kid, I wanted one of those stallions so badly...."

"Why didn't you get one?" Grace asked, knowing the Babcocks could easily afford an expensive horse.

"Oh, Mother eventually discouraged us from getting too involved in riding..."

"She told C.C. that she was going to get as bow-legged as a cowboy if she kept it up," D.D. interjected.

"Yeah, well, luckily she quit in time," said Noel. "By the way, I brought you a present, Parentheses Legs."

He dodged C.C.'s swat and handed her a festively wrapped box. C.C. had air shipped gifts to Noel and D.D. from London, since she'd been shopping anyway. But she was a bit surprised at this gesture from her brother; it had been years since they'd exchanged Christmas presents.

She opened the box and removed a bright red bathrobe, complete with wide, white cuffs and trim.

"Thank you, Noel," she said carefully, examining the garment. "It's pretty, and ...um, well, flame retardant. Thanks again."

"Well," he said, getting the feeling she was less than thrilled with his gift, "I figured if you have to go back to the hospital, you won't mind so much if this robe gets stolen."

"How very thoughtful," Niles muttered as he refilled everyone's glasses.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and D.D. felt the need to change the subject.

"Isn't that a lovely tree," she said, walking over to the Christmas tree. "Who decorated it?"

Everyone turned their attention to the tree and started talking about Christmas. The children showed off their gifts, and Noel asked Brighton to demonstrate his latest Playstation game. Soon Max joined them, and the room was filled with the sounds of conversation mingled with blips and beeps from the video game. C.C. noticed Niles standing off to the side, conversing with D.D. So engrossed were they that they didn't notice C.C. hovering near the kitchen door. She was poised to enter, should they look up, but they kept chatting. C.C. caught snippets of sentences.

"...won't talk about it....prognosis...therapy...can't drive...balance...denial..."

C.C. silently fumed. How dare that butler discuss her alleged infirmities with her own sister. If D.D. had questions, why didn't she ask me directly? What did he know, anyway? She shoved the kitchen door open and went inside, looking for liquid sustenance. She started searching through the cupboards; surely Hazel had some cooking sherry stashed somewhere. As each shelf proved innocent of alcohol, C.C. grew more agitated.

"Why won't they just ask _me_ how I feel? I'm fine. It happened, it's over, let's get on with life." Everything had been going so well; everyone had been kibitzing and sniping like old times. But it didn't last. They wouldn't let themselves forget. "Cripes, they didn't fuss over the Butler this much when he had his heart attack! His _heart_, damn it, now _that's_ serious! I had a bullet in the head, they took it out, end of story. But they treat me like I'm a baby."

C.C. squatted down and started searching the lower cupboards. She was so preoccupied she didn't hear someone enter the room.

"May I help you find something, Miss Babcock?"

C.C. jolted to an upright position, and wheeled around. The sudden movement made her dizzy, and she reached out for the countertop for support. She missed by many inches, and started to topple over. Niles easily caught her and held her against him for a moment.

"Are you OK?" he asked softly, into her ear.

"I'm fine, damn it, fine, but no one will believe me." She turned her head so he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes.

He slowly walked her over to a kitchen chair and sat her down. She put her head down on her arms on the table, and tried to hold back tears of frustration. Niles sat closely by, with his hand gently on her back. He remained quiet and thought he'd let her cry herself out. This was good for her, he thought to himself. But instead of having a good, long cry, she sat up abruptly.

"Isn't there anything to drink in this house?" she asked crossly.

Niles walked over to the Sub-Zero and returned with a bottle of water.

"This isn't what I had in mind," C.C. snarled, but uncapped it nevertheless. "Since you're here, can you fetch me a pain pill please?"

The use of the term "fetch" rankled him, but she _had_ said "please", so he silently left the room and returned with her medication.

She took the pill, followed by a long swig of water, then sat quietly for a moment.

"Why?" she asked no one in particular.

"Why, what?" Niles asked softly, as he took a seat beside her.

"Why does a simple head injury suddenly make me old and feeble?"

"First of all, your injury was anything but simple. Secondly, you've been old as long as I've known you."

The corners of C.C.'s mouth turned up ever so slightly at that remark.

"But what makes you think you're feeble?"

"For crying out loud, my brother gave me a bathrobe. That's a gift you'd give to Yetta, or Yetta's mother, for heaven's sake. My sister gave me a gift certificate to Elizabeth Arden. What do you think I'll get for my next birthday? A free cholesterol screening? Support hose?"

Without thinking, Niles reached over and wrapped his arms around C.C. Instead of balking, she willingly leaned over and buried her face in his shoulder.

"Maybe they were just 'caught short' like you were last year," he soothed, as he gently rubbed her back with one hand. "After all, they weren't planning to visit until I phoned them. I don't think they were making any sort of statement, those were just last-minute gifts."

C.C. sighed heavily. Niles was probably right, but she didn't feel like leaving his embrace just yet.

"Miss Babcock," he murmured huskily into her ear, "you are anything but feeble. You are the strongest, most dynamic woman I know."

C.C. pulled back slightly and looked directly into his deep azure eyes. They sat motionless for a moment, drinking in each other's gaze, when they simultaneously started moving closer. C.C. closed her eyes and parted her lips slightly, when the kitchen door banged open.

"Quick!" Fran yelled, rushing towards the sink. "Max just spilled a glass of burgundy on the rug. He gets so excited over a stupid video game..." She opened random cupboard doors. "Where are the paper towels?"

Niles and C.C. each sat up quickly. C.C. cast her glance downwards, somewhat embarrassed, and Niles jumped to his feet.

"Right here, Miss Fine," he said, producing a roll of towels. "I'll take care of it..." And he rushed towards the living room.

Fran glanced over at C.C., who looked uncharacteristically flushed. She thought for a moment and suddenly realized what she'd seen when she first burst into the room.

"Um, did I interrupt something?" she asked.

"Not at all," C.C. replied, getting up from her chair. "He was just giving me my medication."

As C.C. left the room, Fran wondered exactly _what _kind of medicine Niles had been administering.


	5. Breakdown

After the New Year, things settled down into their normal routines at the Sheffield residence. Fran and her mother were entrenched in wedding preparations, the children were back in school, and Maxwell and C.C. were back at work. Well, as back at work as C.C. could handle. She still tired easily, and found that she had to go over columns of numbers three and four times to make sure her totals were accurate. But she still had the knack of schmoozing with potential investors over the occasional lunch. Long-winded formal evening balls were out of the question for her at the moment, but she was more than holding her own and winning over new investors during the limited outings she could endure.

There had been no further discussion between her and Niles about their almost-close encounter in the kitchen on Boxing Day. But that which hadn't happened still weighed heavily in the back of her mind. She couldn't deny the electricity she'd felt when the butler's lips had been only millimeters away from hers. Her already overworked brain kept kicking around conflicting emotions...how could she feel anything for him? He was only the butler. But, back on the airplane, she remembered her thoughts had been about him. Why? No matter how she tried to deny it, she couldn't help feeling something for him. His penetrating blue eyes. His tousled blond hair. His razor-sharp wit, which never left any insult from her untouched. Her mother would reach for her smelling salts if she ever suspected that her daughter had feelings for a common servant. But Niles was anything but common. He had a degree from Oxford, which was certainly worth at least two from Yale or whichever university degrees had been bought by her mother's preferred suitors. Niles was intelligent, and had earned everything he'd achieved, unlike the third and fourth-generation blue bloods her mother kept forcing upon her. Their degrees had been pretty much guaranteed due to their parents' bequests to the university.

C.C. sighed to herself, as she sat in her room and looked outside at the dismal, grey January skyline. Life had been so much easier before, hadn't it? She got up and walked to the window, looking at the deserted street below her. Or had it? She remembered that night that Niles had kissed her. Well, truth be told, they'd kissed each other. Fervently. But they'd been insulting each other just seconds prior. And he'd made her cluck like a chicken, to boot. What kind of sickness was that? C.C. began pacing around the room...was she not capable of a normal relationship? Did it have to be strange and weird and...abusive to grab her attention? Was it really abusive, what she and Niles shared? Sure, he was quick to call her a cow or a man-beast, but usually only in response to her put-downs. She sat down in a chair and sighed again. Sometimes his barbs hurt, and sometimes they were a turn-on. Why was everything so confusing?

"It's getting late, Miss Babcock, traffic will be unruly. Are you ready?" Niles called up the stairs.

Despite her protests, he still wouldn't allow her to just take a cab to her various doctor appointments, and insisted on driving her himself. Unbeknownst to her, Niles had more than a passing interest in her progress and her prognosis.

"Coming, coming," C.C. spat, as she descended the stairs. Niles barely concealed a smile as he looked appreciatively at her. She was elegantly dressed, as always, in a mauve Chanel suit accented by a single strand of pearls around her neck.

They rode to Dr. Shin's office in comparative silence, each lost in their own thoughts. C.C. wondered why she had to keep going back for these appointments, since apart from her headaches and occasional fatigue she felt fine. Niles wondered how C.C. would react when the doctor recommended therapy, as Dr. Shin had quietly discussed with him two weeks ago.

C.C. had dressed herself after the usual battery of tests, and joined Niles in Dr. Shin's office for the regular consultation. The neurologist's office was decorated in soft hues of blue and gray, and the wood paneling on one wall added to the soothing effect. Dr. Shin sat at his desk and rifled through the file in front of him.

"Well, Miss Babcock," he began with a smile, "everything is coming along just fine. Your EEG was negative, which is good..."

"Can I drive myself, then?" C.C. interjected.

Dr. Shin's smile was friendly, yet condescending. "Not quite yet...we need six months of negative EEGs, just to be safe." He smiled at Niles, as if for support.

"Miss Babcock has sufficient transportation at her bidding, whenever she needs it," Niles concurred.

C.C.'s eyebrows knit in annoyance, and she slunk down in her chair a bit. She hated being treated like an invalid.

"I'd like you to start seeing Dr. Kaufman," Dr. Shin continued, "for some cognitive therapy."

"For what?" C.C. asked, a bit irritated. She just wanted to go home and not be bothered.

"Cognitive therapy," Dr. Shin repeated. "Just some basic,verbal association. Some exercises to help your brain remember words that you used to know. Your most recent tests show that you need help in that area. You must remember that a part of your brain was damaged. Although the brain may regenerate itself in appearance, it will not do so in function. You need to train another part of the brain to pick up the slack."

Niles hung on the doctor's every word, while C.C. crossed her arms in front of her and rolled her eyes.

"Whatever," she sighed heavily. "Not like anyone's going to listen to me, anyway."

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Babcock," Dr. Shin smiled kindly, "but it's a matter of covering all our bases." He'd seen too many cases like hers; he knew their reluctance, their denial. She was lucky to have a friend like this man, Mr. Worthington, to tend to her needs. Many of his patients had no such support system.

C.C. made an appointment with Dr. Kaufman as they checked out for the day. She was quiet and contemplative on the ride home.

Niles cast a sidelong glance at her as he drove.

"Is there anything you need before we get home?" he asked.

"No," she said distractedly. It was obvious there was something on her mind.

"Everything OK?" Niles ventured.

It was a few minutes before she responded. She shifted in her seat and appeared agitated. She finally turned towards Niles with an uncertain, yet somewhat cranky look on her face.

"I never thought much about it before, but did you know that you're the closest thing I have to a friend?" she asked.

Niles tried to stifle a smile at the non-sequitor. "I did not know that, but I thank you for that sterling recommendation."

C.C. didn't catch his humor, and stared straight ahead. "Come to think of it, at the end of the day, who do you count as 'friends'?"

The smile faded from Niles' face and he drove in silence for several moments. He then made a sudden turn into the driveway of a local coffee house. After he parked, C.C. followed him inside without question. She waited at a table until he returned with a pair of cappuccinos. "Some caffeine before dinner," he said by way of explanation to her.

C.C. poured a packet of Equal into her cup and then looked up at the butler. "Seriously," her eyes implored. "What do you do when you're not taking care of Maxwell and his family?"

Niles stirred his coffee and looked at it with interest. He couldn't meet her eyes at the moment, for she had hit a nerve. "They keep me busy, and I have other interests...." his voice drifted off.

"Oh," C.C. murmured, sipping her drink. She'd often wondered what the servant boy did after hours, and now he was alluding to a life outside of the Sheffield mansion. She felt a bit exposed, having laid her cards on the table, so to speak, while they'd been in the car.

"All I've had." she said, looking downward, "is my work. Nothing else mattered, and it was always enough. I never thought about anything else...until now." She looked up at Niles.

Niles looked into her deep blue eyes and remained silent for a moment. "You're certainly in a contemplative mood," he finally remarked. C.C. felt the need to continue and ignored his statement.

"To be honest, I always thought there was something between you and Nanny Fine."

Niles snorted with laughter. "What?!"

C.C. looked down at her coffee for a second, then looked up at met Niles' eyes. "I figured that only Maxwell stood between the two of you, and you were too afraid of your job to make a move."

Niles was speechless for a moment, then recovered. "I think you're letting your distaste for Miss Fine get in the way of your rational thinking."

"I know what you think, but I don't think I ever truly hated Fran," C.C. admitted, looking down with sudden interest in a hangnail. "I think it was more...envy. I was jealous."

"Of what, for heaven's sake?" Niles asked, astounded. C.C. Babcock had everything Fran Fine didn't: money, breeding, education. Miss Babcock was at ease in any social situation, and could handle herself with aplomb whether she was dining with heads of state, mingling with royalty, or schmoozing with financiers. Fran was a dear friend, and he loved her, but he couldn't imagine having to spend large amounts of "quality" time with her. She was fun to gossip with, but then what? C.C., on the other hand, knew the difference between Monet and Manet. She was fluent in French, was a voracious reader that kept up to date with current events, and possessed a quick wit that didn't rely on innuendo or double entendres. Niles didn't like to think of himself as pretentious, but he couldn't deny his upbringing; he was an Oxford graduate, and had been rubbing elbows with the British aristocracy as long as he could remember. He was accustomed to and required a certain amount of decorum and propriety. He couldn't picture Miss Babcock in a miniskirt, propped on the edge of a desk, as was Mrs. Sheffield's habit. But, to him, C.C. looked just as alluring, as feminine, in her well-tailored business suits.

"You and she were always so close," C.C. continued. "I know you both always proclaimed to simply be 'best friends', but I couldn't help but suspect there was something more there. She was always touching you, and giggling with you...there was a closeness there that went beyond friendship, or so I thought."

Niles started to interrupt, but C.C. held him off with a small motion of her hand.

"Let's face it, you teamed up with her almost as soon as she arrived, and the two of you were always plotting against me. For a while, I thought she was as big a gold digger as you presumed I was. The butler was obviously drooling over her, but she held out for the big Broadway producer."

"I beg your pardon, I never 'drooled' over her," Niles said, somewhat affronted.

"Well, you could've fooled me. She pranced around in those short, tight skirts that were meant for someone 20 years younger than her, and you did nothing but admire her. I could just _imagine _what you'd say had I turned up in an outfit like that...." C.C. paused for a moment, the anger suddenly welling up in her stomach. "You always made cracks about me hanging out on street corners, while Nanny Fine was dressing and conducting herself like a common trollop. But no one cared, no one said 'boo' to her..." C.C.'s tone became mocking, "Fran could do no wrong. She was just _so_ wonderful, so perfect...it was always C.C. who was the tramp..."

"I'm...sorry about those cracks I made," Niles said slowly. "Believe me, there was nothing between Fran and me besides friendship. I was never attracted to her in, um, _that_ way. As for why we 'teamed up' against you, well, I guess you were an easy target. Fran has the skin of a rhino, and half the time wouldn't recognize an insult if it was in a self-addressed envelope. When she saw me pick on you, and saw how it annoyed you, I guess she just joined in the so-called fun." He paused for a moment and looked downward, a little embarrassed. "I guess it's sort of like a schoolboy thing...when you like a girl, you throw spitballs at her and pull her hair."

C.C. sat quietly, mulling over what he'd said.

"Besides," Niles continued, working up a bit of lather, "you don't have much room to talk. What about the years of you throwing yourself at Mr. Sheffield?"

C.C. sighed heavily. "I guess I _did_ have a crush on him at the beginning...he was so, well, _pretty_, and was a successful producer. But he and Sara were in love, and once the kids were born, well...they were a happy family and I lost interest. After Sara died, I felt sorry for Maxwell, and perhaps developed a new interest in him. Then, as the years went by, I'd see my old sorority sisters, all happily married to rich, attractive men, and I was still single and working for a living. Implying that I was having an affair with one of New York's most eligible widowers was a defense mechanism. I guess once I said it enough, I started believing it."

"Well, you gave a pretty convincing performance all these years," Niles snorted.

"It's...you....I don't know, it's so hard to put into words."

"Try."

"Throughout my life, I was used to getting anything that I'd worked for. I loved riding; I saw a girl at the stables walk by with a trophy one day, and I decided I wanted one, too. I started practicing...what is that kind of riding? " she pounded her fist on the table in frustration.

"Dressage?" Niles supplied.

"Right, dressage, I practiced that in every spare moment, and I won ribbons the first year I entered a competition. At Bryn Mawr, I found out it would look impressive on a resume to be president of the class, so I campaigned my butt off and I won the election. I don't know...I guess it was some kind of reaction to my upbringing. At least that's what Dr. Bort seems to think."

"What do you mean?" Niles asked, confused.

C.C. closed her eyes and sighed. She began speaking without opening her eyes. "I've never told anyone this, but I was unwanted."

"Oh, every child feels like that at one time or another – "

"No, I mean I know it for a fact. One time when I was about seven years old, I heard my parents arguing. It was one of the few times the two of them were together in the house at the same time. I heard my father say something about how could he know I was his, and my mother said something about just look at her, anyone could tell. And then she said that she hadn't wanted me any more than he did, and it was only because her doctor was an old poop that she had to have me. I didn't quite understand what she meant at the time, but it gave me a queasy feeling in my stomach."

Niles impulsively reached over and grasped C.C.'s hands in his. He felt the bile rising up in his throat, but he kept quiet, afraid to speak.

"Anyway," C.C. continued, "eventually I was sent off to boarding school, and I remember spending the holidays alone in the dorm. Neither Mother nor Daddy was going to be home for Christmas, so they wired that there was no use for me to go home to an empty house. I ate my meals in the kitchen with the staff, since the dining room was closed. On Christmas Eve, I overhead one of the cooks talking to someone, complaining about having to work during the holidays. I heard her refer to me as one of the 'throwaway' children that they had to take care of." C.C. paused and looked up at Niles, who was still clasping her hands. "I not only felt bad because I was there alone for Christmas, I was also making someone else stay there, away from her own family."

She paused for a moment, then asked "where was I going with all this?"

"It was about Mr. Sheffield, but it's not important," Niles said soothingly, his heart bleeding for C.C. What a couple of lemons she had for parents. He wished he could take her in his arms and hug away all the hurt, but the look on her face warned him to keep his distance.

"Oh, yeah. Anyway, I guess that's why I always felt if I worked hard enough, and achieved enough, my parents would finally love me. And Maxwell would've been the ultimate award – a wealthy and famous husband. But I think, deep down, I knew years ago that he and I were not right for one another. But I was...I _am_ not used to not getting what I set my mind to, so I kept on trying. I guess it was just a matter of pride."

She pulled her hands away from Niles and crossed her arms. "And," she continued, "once I saw how much it bugged you, I must admit that that sort of spurred me on." She picked up her coffee cup and swallowed the last of her cappuccino. "I can't exactly explain it...I guess it just gave me one more goal to achieve: 'How can I upset the butler?'"

Niles got up to leave, and gestured for C.C. to do the same. As they walked back to the Town Car, he mumbled "I must say, you have a rather perverse sense of game playing."

"And you don't?!" C.C. shot back, as she wheeled around.

"Touche, I suppose," he replied, opening the passenger door for her.

They returned home, and C.C. retreated to her room, while Niles began to prepare dinner. The children were all home by that time, and were in rare form. The house was filled with noise and laughter and pounding feet. C.C. felt exhausted from both her doctor appointment and her conversation with Niles, and laid down to nap for a while. When she awakened, just prior to dinner, the kids hadn't settled down much.

C.C., clad in the red robe Noel had given her, slowly approached the stairway, her eyes only half open. The boy ran past her and started descending the stairs before stopping and looking behind him. Suddenly the oldest girl, Maggie, was it?, appeared and shouted down at him.

"Brighton! You give that back NOW!"

The boy extended one arm and waved a book. "Is this what you're looking for?" he taunted.

Maggie looked helplessly at C.C. and cried "He's got my diary!"

Before C.C. could explain that she could care less, Margaret lunged down the stairs at her brother. Brighton attempted to run downward while still looking behind him. He lost his footing and tumbled the last few steps to the ground floor.

At the same time, a paralyzing, inhuman scream pierced the air.

"Nooo!!! No! Noooo!"

Maggie paused on the stairway and looked behind her. She saw C.C.'s eyes open wide in terror as she screamed.

"Nooooo!" C.C.'s insides felt like they were coming through her throat as she watched the boy fall down the stairs. Something was unleashed in the back of her mind...she suddenly remembered stairs...falling, falling....hiding, don't move, play dead.....

Brighton scrambled to his feet and started up the stairs, his eyes wide with fright. "I'm OK, Miss Babcock, I didn't hurt anything!"

C.C. had crumpled and was huddled in a fetal position at the top of the stairs, wailing and screaming. The two kids were confused and terrified, and before they could move any further Niles bounded up the staircase and gathered C.C. into his arms.

"It's OK," he murmured to her, though she didn't seem to hear him.

Without letting go of C.C., Niles raised his eyes and spoke to Maggie. "Go get Dr. Bort's phone number off the refrigerator. It's on one of the magnets. Please ask her to meet us at Lenox Hill." Margaret ran off without further question.

Brighton stood motionless, staring upwards at the whimpering C.C.

"Master Brighton," Niles said evenly, trying not to startle or disturb C.C., "please call 911 and request an ambulance."

Brighton raced off, and Niles pulled C.C. close and spoke into her hair. She was shaking uncontrollably. "It's all right," he soothed, "just hang on."


	6. Healing

"Damn," C.C. thought to herself. "I should've skipped breakfast and just come downstairs."

The only seats left in the room were in the front row, and C.C. preferred to slump down, unnoticed, in the back. With a sigh of resignation, she took a seat and waited for the speaker.

"It's what I get for coming late," C.C. muttered, mentally kicking herself.

"Did-did you say something?" a nervous, fidgety young woman sitting next to her asked. She was folding and unfolding a Kleenex constantly as she spoke, and as it shredded, little white pieces floated around, some landing on C.C.'s black sweatpants. Even though they were part of the "uniform" provided by the facility, C.C. still couldn't abide having some stranger's lint balls all over her.

"Just talking to myself, sorry," C.C. replied, brushing herself off. "That's why I'm here, you know," she added with a sidelong glance, "I talk to myself."

"Really?" the girl asked, twisting furiously at the tissue.

"Never mind," C.C. shook her head slightly, which was a mistake, because it just instigated another blinding headache. She wanted nothing more than to down a couple of pain pills and return to her room to zonk out. But no one was allowed to leave during the motivational speaking session. Wouldn't do to miss the mandatory "happy hour." After having spent the better part of two days sedated at Lenox Hill Hospital, Dr. Bort had C.C. transferred to this....Place. She couldn't bear to even think of the name of it, much less articulate it. It wasn't a place for Babcocks, that was for sure. Well, on one hand, it was a state-of-the-art facility, lavishly appointed and expensively staffed and furnished. "For high-class freaks only," C.C. had commented when she'd been checked in. But despite the lobster bisque for lunch and the chintz throw pillows in the visiting room, it was still a mental hospital. "Excuse me, _mental health facility_," she sarcastically corrected herself. And she wasn't technically "crazy", she suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Or so they said.

These weekly meetings were part of the treatment. C.C. had only been to two, but she had already learned to loathe them. Some perky-beyond-belief person onstage with a Pepsodent smile urging them to take charge! Control their own destiny! Set goals and visualize! We are all survivors! Yeah, right. Last week's "survivor" was some mid-level executive who'd found himself downsized out of a job at age 57. Boo-freakin'-hoo.

The patients suddenly became quiet and looked at the podium in expectation. A young, attractive blonde girl stood behind it. She looked to be 25 years old at the most, and C.C. wondered what terrible tragedy could've happened to someone so young. Wal-Mart ran out of Maybelline? Prom King bailed on her?

"My name is Holly," the girl began, somewhat haltingly. "They asked me to talk to you today...well, my doctor asked me, too. You see, I just recently checked out of a place similar to this. What is therapy for you all, is also my therapy." She paused and took a sip of water. "Almost two years ago, I was visiting my fiancé at his condominium. It was late on a weeknight; I had just gotten there because I'd worked late. I'm ...er, I _was_ a special education teacher. I'd had parent conferences and meetings after school that day..." she stopped and then shook her head. "Sorry to ramble...as you might've guessed, I'm not a professional speaker."

C.C. watched the girl with interest. Something about her demeanor indicated that this was not going to be one of those pump-your-fist-in-the-air meetings, with everyone yelling "woohoo!"

"Anyway," Holly continued, "I'd gotten to Jason's condo fairly late. I didn't usually spend the night there, but we were leaving early the next day for a camping trip. His roommate, Eric, was still up, and Eric's sister was sleeping on the couch. Jason and I went to bed, and I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, the light was on and someone was yelling."

The audience sat up and listened attentively as Holly's voice began to falter.

"There was a...a man, waving a gun, telling us to get the hell out of bed. He pushed us down the hall, back into the living room, where Eric and Heather were sitting on the couch, being guarded by another man with a gun." She swallowed several times, then took another sip of water with a shaking hand.

"I won't go into all the details, but I will tell you that they made us all take our clothes off, and they took turns raping Heather and me. Eventually, they forced us all into a van, and drove us to some field somewhere. I was crying so hard, I couldn't really see. We got out of the van and kneeled down, like they told us. It was so cold outside, and we were still naked. I heard Jason say "Please, no!" and then a shot. Then more shots, and then all I saw was black."

The Kleenex girl next to C.C. whimpered and started trembling. C.C. impulsively put an arm around her shoulder while her eyes were still riveted to Holly.

"I heard them drive away, and I got up. I called to Jason, but he didn't move. Everyone was just laying there, so still...." She closed her eyes for a few moments, then continued. "I ran. I didn't know where I was going, but I ran. I finally saw lights, and I found a house. They let me in, wrapped me in a blanket. They called 911, but I remember I kept telling them the details of what happened. I kept describing the two men. I was afraid I'd die before I could tell them, and I wanted them to be caught."

C.C. felt a familiar feeling of panic rising in her throat. She closed her eyes, and saw the same thing she always saw: she was standing at a doorway, looking at the daylight, and then everything started to swirl.

"As you can see, I didn't die. Not physically," Holly continued. "They did catch the men; they had gone back and cleaned out Jason's condo and got caught when they tried to sell his big-screen TV. The trial was a nightmare for me, having to constantly relive the whole thing, and the lawyers asking questions, like Heather and I had _asked_ to be attacked. Anyway, they eventually got the death penalty, and I got the big prize of having to live with this, every day of my life."

She spoke for a little while longer, and then opened the floor to questions. Holly sat down on the edge of the stage, and encouraged everyone to move closer so they could all talk. C.C. hated to admit it, but this meeting actually had some merit. This was a girl that, in her opinion, had gone through worse than she had. And she was still here, and talking about it. C.C. wanted to know how. What was her secret? Before she could ask a question, the Tissue Girl raised her hand.

"My name's Melissa, but my friends call me 'Missy,'", she began in a wavering voice. "I'm 22. I never thought I'd meet someone like me...."

All eyes turned to Missy. She looked down at what remained of her shredded Kleenex. "I was ra-.. attacked a month ago. Getting into my car." Her shoulders went up and down as she breathed heavily. "I didn't know anyone else who had...who'd gone through that. And you look – so normal."

Holly gave a small laugh. "Sometimes I don't feel so normal inside."

"But you're outside, you're going to places... I thought I'd never get into a car again. I just wanted to tell you that...you make me feel like one day I can."

There was a smattering of encouragement, and C.C. raised her hand. Since the room had taken on the air of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, she stood and said:

"I am C.C., and I was shot in the head during a hijacking." There was a murmur of recognition throughout the room; after all, Flight 181 had been in the news for several weeks at one time. "I was wondering...you said you were shot in the head, too?"

Holly nodded. "How did it affect you? Did you have memory problems? Do you lose your balance?" Those were the questions she asked out loud, even though in the back of her mind she was wondering about...Niles. This girl had seen her fiancé get killed. Hopefully, they'd known what they meant to each other before that. But C.C. wondered - if she had died on that tarmac, would she have been a headline one day, and forgotten the next? Would there be anyone left behind to mourn? Holly, at least, had been engaged; she'd had a man who knew she loved him, and he took that with him to his grave.

"I was actually lucky," Holly explained, "I had a large metal barrette in my hair, and that deflected the bullet somewhat. All I ended up with was a large scar." She turned her head and lifted up her hair. "See? I reminded of it every morning when I dry my hair."

The meeting continued for another hour, with others asking questions, while C.C. sat back in her chair and reflected. It could've been worse, she reasoned. She would be afraid to board an overseas flight the rest of her life, but at least she hadn't been raped while going to her car. She didn't know if she could ever recover from something like that. That seemed like so much more of an assault, a much more damaging attack.

After the meeting, Holly approached C.C. "I just wanted to say to you," she spoke quietly, "work with them."

"Excuse me?"

"I can see me in your eyes. When I first got out of the hospital, I just wanted to go back to work and forget everything. But I couldn't. And the trial just made it worse. But I didn't want to talk to a shrink. I'd grown up making fun of head doctors and crazy people. But, trust me, you need help. And once you're willing to accept it, you _will_ get better." She gave C.C. a quick embrace, wished her luck, and was gone.

Niles looked wistfully at the cake adorned with C.C.'s face. He'd made a joke to the family about it being rum-filled, just like its inspiration, but everyone knew he missed her. What they didn't know was how much. How badly. How every day his heart ached when 9:00AM passed without a familiar "hello, hello!" As he cut the cake and served, he thought back to that day at the coffee shop. How they'd started to open up to one another. He had a tentative sense, a slight hope, that maybe Miss Babcock had some feelings for him. "Oh, but if it was only true, and I could be sure," he thought to himself as he retreated to the kitchen.

"I wonder how Miss Babcock is doing," Grace mentioned as she toyed with her cake. It was the first time in a while that someone had mentioned C.C. Max had been worried that the children may have been traumatized by seeing C.C.'s breakdown, and he had taken pains to avoid the subject. Particularly young Gracie, so recently out of therapy herself. Pretending it never happened was the best solution, he'd decided.

"I only hope she's getting the help she needs," Sylvia said, as she scraped some frosting from her plate. She remembered that day, coming home with Fran after shopping for wedding dresses, only to see an ambulance out front.

"She was OK before, Ma, I'm sure she'll be fine again soon," Fran replied.

Sylvia set her fork down and looked uncharacteristically serious. She looked around the table and decided they all needed to hear this.

"You don't understand, Fran," she began, "Miss Babcock has been through a very traumatic experience. Who knows? She may never be the same. But at least she's somewhere where they can try to help. Too bad they didn't have such places 60 years ago."

"What are you talkin' about, Ma?"

Sylvia preoccupied herself with stirring her coffee as she continued. "Your great-uncle Boris, God rest his soul, was interned in Dachau near the end of World War II."

"I don't remember any Uncle Boris," Fran interrupted.

"He died before you were born," Sylvia continued. "I only knew him when I was a little girl. We were never allowed to talk about it, but from what I overheard, apparently he and his wife were taken there in 1943. The next year, the war was almost over, and prisoners were being moved. Dachau was overcrowded, and there was a typhus epidemic. Boris survived, but his wife died."

The children were looking at Sylvia with solemn eyes. Even Max was so caught up in the story he forgot to protest that it wasn't appropriate for the kids to hear.

"When I was little, I'd see Uncle Boris at some family gatherings sometimes, but I was always warned ahead of time not to mention the war to him. Don't ask about the past. I guess everyone else was told the same thing. So Boris was never quite right after that. He wasn't allowed to talk about his experience, and he eventually was taken to a sanitarium to live out his last few years."

Sylvia took a sip of her coffee and turned back to her cake. "I just know that not talking about something like that can eat a person up inside. I hope it doesn't happen to Miss Babcock."

"Exposure therapy? What's that?" C.C. asked Dr. Bort, who came to see her every other day.

"It's a very successful treatment used for PTSD patients," the doctor explained. "You've come a long way in the past week, and we think you're ready for exposure therapy."

C.C. sighed. She'd unburdened a lot of her feelings recently with the various doctors there, thanks to Holly's presentation. She'd also received a beautiful floral arrangement the day before from Niles, much to her surprise. The aide who brought it to her room informed her that some man with an English accent had been phoning daily for updates on her progress. C.C. knew instinctively that the accent that had phoned was not Maxwell. Those tidbits had buoyed her spirits and she started to feel restless, ready to get out of The Place.

"In exposure therapy, we re-enact the traumatic event in a controlled environment," Dr. Bort was saying. "It helps you to work through the fear, the anger, the guilt."

C.C. remained quiet, for Dr. Bort had struck a nerve. C.C. had finally admitted this past week to another doctor that she felt guilty. That Victoria, who'd been sitting next to her on the plane, had died and she hadn't. What if C.C. had been in a different seat? Would she have gotten the "good" bullet? Why did she live, and what did it mean? She felt as if now unreasonable demands would be placed upon her – "you survived a hijacking, you were spared for a higher purpose" type of thing. Oh well, whatever it took to get her out of this Place.

"When do we start?" she asked Dr. Bort.


	7. Close Encounter

"So, what's been going on while I was away?" C.C. asked as she settled back into the Cartier leather seat of the Town Car and buckled her seatbelt.

Niles eased his way into the flow of traffic and smiled.

"Oh, you would've enjoyed it – it's been non-stop choosing between fingertip or waltz length veils, jacquard or damask table linens, weeping fig trees or topiaries..."

"You know, for a man, you understand far too much about wedding details," C.C. said with a sidelong glance.

"Well, I _am _Miss Fine's second-best girlfriend, don't you know," Niles responded in an exaggerated fey tone with a deliberately limp hand gesture.

C.C. laughed out loud at that, and Niles smiled, pleased to hear her relaxed and amused. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to erase that image of C.C. from his mind – the one of her cowering and shivering at the top of the Sheffield's staircase, moaning like a wounded animal. He'd checked on her progress daily while she was at The Place, and was disappointed that C.C. hadn't been allowed visitors. Her time there had apparently done her some good, though, as she looked happier and healthier than she had in a long time.

"Well, one good thing about being locked away," C.C. mused aloud, "at least I wasn't available to be asked to be a bridesmaid. I cringe to think of the lime-green polyester frock she would've made me wear..."

"Even Miss Valerie has been expressing her discontent as of late," Niles admitted of Fran's maid of honor. "If she so much as looks at a brownie or cookie, Miss Fine comes unglued and reminds her that they've had the final fitting and there is no time left to let out her gown."

C.C. shook her head in amusement and smiled. She knew that Fran would've never asked her to be in the wedding party, but she was enjoying this easy banter with Niles. In some ways, when they were alone, he was so...different. Not every word out of his mouth was a jibe or an insult. Mind you, he didn't completely change his stripes...she chuckled inwardly as she remembered him helping her pack up to leave The Place. She'd thanked him for the flowers he'd sent, and he responded that he'd thought they might come in handy if she'd wanted to graze between meals. C.C. quietly wondered what it would be like once they got back to the Sheffield house. Truth be told, when she was there with him, she'd always felt obligated to keep up a certain image, matching him cutting remark for cutting remark. Even though she was looking forward to getting back to her temporary "home", she silently worried about the possibility of losing this new closeness she and Niles shared.

When they arrived, Niles told C.C. to go on inside, that he'd get her bags. She should've suspected an ulterior motive, for when she walked in the front door, the entire Sheffield clan was there shouting "welcome home!" C.C. looked around and saw bunting strung through the railing of the stairway, and a cluster of helium balloons anchored at the bottom. Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes, and she struggled to control her emotions.

"Th-thank you, all of you, this is so very sweet," she managed to choke out.

Niles came in then and the party moved to the dining room, where there was cake, coffee, tea and soft drinks for everyone. C.C. looked around the table and saw the oldest girl sitting, telling Niles to cut her a small – no, smaller than that – piece of cake.

"Surely you have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon?" C.C. asked her, secretly pleased that she was there. She knew that the girl was hot and heavy with some boy. "No plans with the boyfriend?"

Maggie smiled and blushed slightly. She was surprised Miss Babcock knew even that much about her social life.

"Michael is taking me out to the movies tonight," she replied. "He would've been here now, but I told him that this was just for family."

C.C. tried to keep a non-committal expression on her face, but she suddenly had trouble swallowing her cake. Family. After all these years, and her obvious disdain of these children, they still considered her "family"? This sudden flood of emotions was enough to drive a person back to The Place.

"Well, I appreciate you giving up a Saturday for me," C.C. said in a tremulous voice.

The youngest one, the one with all the therapy experience, sensed a need to change the subject.

"You'll still be staying here, won't you, Miss Babcock?"

"Um, for the time being, I guess," C.C. replied. Her sister D.D. was between husbands at the moment and was staying in C.C.'s penthouse while she was in New York. C.C. could certainly go back and room with her sister, but...somehow she didn't want to. It was contrary to every cell in her being, but C.C. liked staying at Maxwell's house. She _liked _being down the hall from Niles. She _enjoyed_ having breakfast every morning with the family. "My God," C.C. thought to herself, "what on Earth has happened to me? They've turned my brain into tapioca!"

"I guess, for a while," C.C. said out loud, in answer to Grace's question. "I was the one who offered my apartment to my sister...I suppose it would be rude to kick her out. I just hate to be an inconvenience..."

There was a chorus of "no", "of course not", "what are you talking about" from around the table. C.C. smiled and said "then you've still got yourselves a house guest." She paused, and then looked around the table, anxious to take the focus off of herself. "So, tell me, what color gown should I shop for? I've got just over a week...."

The conversation immediately turned to the upcoming nuptials, and C.C. silently zoned out, and just sat smiling in her chair. She didn't notice Niles watching her, as if she might explode.

C.C. sat down gratefully at a nearby table. She'd been standing for numerous toasts to the happy couple, and her feet were killing her.

"That's what I get for choosing fashion over practicality," she thought to herself as she slipped her feet out of their shoes and rubbed them together.

She took a sip out of the champagne flute in her hand. It had been a beautiful ceremony, despite Nanny Fine's hairdo that could have concealed a small munitions factory. The reception was a frilly haze of gold and white, with statues and topiary trees and a cake that reached to the ceiling. There was a small nudge in the back of C.C.'s finishing school mind that said this was too over-the-top for a second marriage, but she shrugged it off and took another long draw off her flute.

"How many of those have you had?" asked a veddy cultured British voice.

"Twelve, but who's counting?" C.C. responded, looking up at Niles. She'd seen him before in his "fancy pants," but, my goodness, who could've ever conjured up the image of him in white tie and tails? Breathtaking didn't begin to describe it. C.C. mentally shook herself and tried not to look like a high school girl talking to the star quarterback.

"You naughty girl, you know you're not supposed to..." he wagged a finger at her. "Would you care to dance?"

C.C. stood up and Niles encircled her in his arms. The two of them virtually floated on the dance floor...Niles was an excellent leader, and C.C. had had years of cotillion dancing classes under her belt. When the song ended, the pair was lost in each others eyes, unaware that their flawless moves on the floor had commanded everyone's attention. The orchestra broke the spell and started playing an up-tempo number.

"Do you mind if we sit this one out?" C.C. asked breathlessly.

"My thoughts exactly," Niles concurred. They returned to C.C.'s table and Niles grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. C.C. declined with a wave of her hand.

"Have I told you yet, Miss Babcock, how ravishing you look this evening?"

"Not yet," C.C. laughed, "but of course, you weren't that drunk until now."

Niles sat up straight and looked at her with serious eyes.

"I'm not _that_ drunk," he stated and then paused. The two of them eyed each other for a few minutes, and then he asked "would you like to leave now?"

C.C.'s mind was reeling, the room suddenly seemed unbearably hot. "Yes," was all she said.

They stepped outside and Niles quickly stopped a cab. They rode in silence to the Sheffield home. Upon arrival, they stood silently for a moment in the vestibule, then simultaneously began climbing the stairs. Niles steered C.C. into his room and closed the door. They had their arms around each other, and he pulled her close.

"You don't know how many times I've imagined this," he breathed into her neck.

"You and me both," C.C. said as she reached up and nipped his jaw.

C.C. melted into Niles' embrace...this was not pity or a charity kiss for the wacko...she could feel his raw emotion as he mashed his mouth onto hers. She responded eagerly and they slowly stumbled their way towards his bed while still enmeshed with one another. They bumped into the edge of the bed and tumbled down onto it. Niles started peeling away her Versace gown, and she responded in kind, fingers fumbling at the buttons on his Turnbull and Asser shirt.

"More beautiful than I'd ever imagined," Niles breathed when he'd finally relieved C.C. of all her clothing. He pulled her on top of him and they kissed and giggled. C.C. struggled and finally divested Niles of the last of his clothes. He stopped for a moment and leaned over towards the nightstand. C.C. waited and heard a series of noises as a CD was selected and installed into the nearby player. C.C. smiled and her eyes welled up.

"Roxy Music's 'Siren' CD...how did you know?"

"You've mentioned Bryan Ferry a time or two, and when I went to your apartment to collect your clothes, I couldn't help but notice that you had the LP and the CD of 'Siren.""

C.C. sighed and molded herself against Niles, losing herself to the music, and marveling at the fact that he'd bothered to investigate her entertainment center when he'd been at her penthouse.

As the dulcet strains of "Love is the Drug" filled the room, C.C. lost herself in Niles' arms. He responded with a series of kisses along her jaw, neck and ear. C.C.'s breathing became labored as he worked his way down towards her breast. He teased the tip with his tongue. She gasped with pleasure, and began peppering his body with nips and kisses. He inhaled her Chanel No. 5 and moaned as she gently grasped and manipulated him.

"C.C....my God, you're so beautiful..." Niles murmured against her ear as she raised her hips to meet him. In her mind she saw explosions of color that the finest Scotch had never provided. "I can never be close enough to you," she panted as Niles yowled in sudden satisfaction. The two of them kissed madly and then evaporated into each other's arms. They looked into each other's eyes, and C.C. realized that it had never been like this for her before. Ever. The cuddling afterward, the pillow talk. She and Niles stroked each other and muttered disjointed bits of conversation until they both fell asleep.

When the first light of day penetrated the room, C.C. rolled onto her side and struggled to clear her mind. She glanced over at the snoring Niles and smiled. The previous night had been...magical, ethereal, wonderful. But, in the back of her mind, she realized that Niles had had a lot to drink at the wedding. And he had presumed that she was drunk as well, even though all she'd had was sparkling grape juice, thanks to Nanny Fine's planning ahead and stocking the bar appropriately.

"Damn it, why can't I just accept something at face value?" she chastised herself. Her night with Niles had been the best time she'd ever had, but...she couldn't help but wonder...was he himself? Or had he been sloshed and flush with Dutch courage? A more stable mind would know the difference, she told herself. She looked out the window and heaved a sigh. What if he wakes up and starts taunting me? Or makes jokes? Her insecurities got the best of her, and she quietly got out of bed and tip-toed to her room. She pulled on her red robe from Noel, and then thought for a moment. What if he wasn't _really_ that drunk? She shook her head as if to exorcise her conflicting thoughts, and then went back quietly into Niles' room. He was still motionless, snoring away contentedly. She slipped back into bed and snuggled against him. He moaned slightly and rolled over, embracing her in his sleep. C.C. remained there for over an hour, just admiring his firm, muscled chest as he slept.

"That work-it-out is paying off big time, Mister," she thought to herself, as she admired his body. He was firm and taut and looked at least 10 years younger than his actual age. C.C. nuzzled her face into his neck and kissed him. She then scurried out of his bed and back into her own room, since it was almost time for his alarm to go off. She still had conflicting thoughts as to why last night had happened, and she felt safer here, by herself.

Niles staggered into the kitchen and began preparations for breakfast.

"How's it going, old man?" asked Brighton as he helped himself to some orange juice. "You look like you had a good time last night." He meant, of course, at the reception, but Niles' mind was miles away.

"I had the strangest dream," Niles answered, somewhat in a daze. "I dreamt that I'd slept with...Santa Claus."


	8. Marry Me

C.C. came down to breakfast the Morning After, and Niles simply asked her if she wanted pancakes or waffles. She paused for a moment, willing him to say more, but he remained mute, scrambling eggs in a bowl.

She gave her breakfast order and sighed. She had been right, after all. It had been nothing more than a drunken conquest for him. Well, she was certainly never going to mention That Night again to him, or to anyone.

Weeks passed, then months, and it was business as usual at the Sheffield home. The oldest girl got engaged, and Fran announced her pregnancy. C.C. ensconced herself in her work, leaving no time for a social life. She and Niles treated each other with civility, with the occasional insult inserted now and then.

One afternoon C.C. went into the kitchen, in search of a snack. Thanks to that blasted intercom, she overheard Maxwell talking to the littlest one. Something about her cycle, and Max offered to buy her a bike. C.C. snorted into the Sub-Zero as she browsed over its contents. She selected some sherbet and sat down at the table. Grace hurried into the kitchen and then stopped when she saw someone was there.

"Sorry," she said, lowering her eyes. "Didn't mean to intrude."

"Not a problem," C.C. told the girl, getting up from the table. "How about some sherbet? Do you like orange?"

Grace nodded and sat down silently at the table. Miss Babcock had always remained distant from Max's children, but Grace had often felt drawn to her nevertheless.

C.C. set out the bowls and spoons. She began scooping and kept her eyes on the carton as she said casually, "Speaking of intruding, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with your father..."

Grace looked up, cheeks flushed.

"I'm sorry," C.C. said gently, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But I just thought if you wanted to talk...since Nan- er, your mother isn't here...well, I just wondered if I could help."

"My mother is dead," Grace said with finality. "I love Fran, but she's my step mom, not my mother."

"I'm sorry," C.C. said quietly, passing Grace a bowl of orange sherbet. The two ate in silence for a few minutes.

"You know, Miss Babcock," Grace finally said, while focusing on her spoon, "as much as I love Fran, there _are_ some things I feel uncomfortable talking to her about."

"Let's face it," C.C. smiled, "there are some things a woman feels uncomfortable talking to _anyone_ about!"

Grace smiled at this new understanding between the two of them. "I don't know...I just get the feeling that Fran would make a big deal out of...it. I only have a few questions, and then I really don't care to hear any more about it."

C.C. finished her sherbet and started digging in the carton for another serving. "I can relate...I remember when my mother gave me and my sister a booklet and then told us to ask the school nurse if we had any questions. I got the feeling that the subject was strictly taboo when it came to discussion. I don't know if I ever quite got over that feeling."

C.C. paused while she dug into her second scoop of sherbet. "One thing I do remember, though, from boarding school, is that a lot of girls talked about it and lied just to sound grown up."

"Really?" Grace asked, raising her eyebrows in surprise. "Because...well, it seems like all the girls in my gym class have already started, at least that's what they say..."

"Trust me," C.C. replied, "Some of them may have, but I'd bet a lot of the other girls are just saying so to sound grown up."

"Wow," Grace mused, helping herself to another scoop, "I never thought about it that way, but you're probably right." She paused for a moment and then looked at C.C. with concern. "But I'm 12 years old already, shouldn't I have...."

"It varies from girl to girl," C.C. assured her. "Genetics have a certain influence on it. How old was your sister when she started?"

Grace blushed. "I don't know; we never talked about it."

"Well, it's far too soon to worry about it. And you'll see that once you _do_ start, after the initial excitement, you'll complain about it for the next 40 years or so." The two of them laughed, and C.C. got up and started rummaging through the refrigerator.

"The chocolate syrup is in the cupboard," Grace offered helpfully.

"No, I'm looking for anchovy paste. You'd think Hazel would keep some in here, in case of a Caesar salad emergency or something...."

Gracie's stomach cringed at the thought of anchovies and sherbet, but she remained quiet. Maybe it was some sort of Park Avenue delicacy. Anyway, she felt so much better having talked to someone. On some levels, she felt closer to Miss Babcock than to Fran, and she was happy that C.C. seemed to return the feeling. Grace knew that she would never be boy- and clothes-crazy like Maggie; she was introspective and intellectual. And so was Miss Babcock, it seemed. She rinsed out her bowl and put it in the dishwasher. Impulsively she gave C.C. a quick hug before she fled from the kitchen.

Weeks passed, and the Butler seemed preoccupied with something. "Maybe he's found a cure for yellow waxy build-up," C.C. thought to herself, burying herself in reading new scripts. She'd seen him and Nanny Fine huddled together in Max's office, which had piqued her curiosity, but in the end she decided to let them play whatever game they had concocted. She no longer cared. That is, until everything came crashing down at once: Fran approached her for money for some sort of penalty she'd racked up, while Maxwell had issued an ultimatum, ordering her to be nice to the former Nanny or else. She felt like her head was ready to explode by the time she went to the theater to see this new play that Niles, of all people, had managed to produce. The show had been surprisingly good, and she said as much to him at the party afterward.

"Congratulations, you finally managed to pull off something bigger than your shorts." She smiled and braced herself, ready for his retort. He stood there silently for a moment, swaying on his feet, before he finally sputtered "Marry me!"

Had she been drinking, C.C. would've done a Danny Thomas-style spit take. She looked at him in shock for a moment, and then burst out laughing. She turned and walked away, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

Later that evening, C.C. was on her way upstairs after having gorged herself on anchovy-stuffed olives in the kitchen. She stopped short in the living room when she saw the butler waiting at the foot of the stairs. Maxwell and Fran were just arriving home from the party and paused after coming in through the front door, surveying the tableau in front of them.

Niles was no longer smiling; he looked deadly serious as he looked C.C. straight in the eyes and proposed once more. C.C. was completely taken aback. Surely he couldn't be serious? She'd thought it had been part of some elaborate joke back at the theater. She'd silently congratulated herself for leaving before he could spring the punch line on her.

"Marry you?!!" C.C. repeated in disbelief. She stood staring, mouth agape, at Niles who was looking expectantly at her, hands extended and holding a ring box.

"Marry you?" C.C. said again, as if to clarify. "For heaven's sake, we only recently started speaking civilly to one another! We've never even been out on a date!"

"Noooo," Niles drawled, stepping closer to her, looking directly into her eyes with a hint of smile, "but we do _have_, shall we say, a fairly _intimate_ relationship. Or we did at one time..."

C.C.'s hand flew to her mouth in shock. "You remember that night? Why, you – you've never said a word about it! And besides, I thought you were drunk!"

Max grabbed Fran by the arm and whispered "Why don't we leave them alone?"

"Are you kidding?!" Fran hissed back. "This is priceless stuff!"

Maxwell nevertheless propelled Fran into the kitchen.

C.C. stood staring uncertainly at Niles. He met her gaze.

"Is that the only reason you stayed with me that night, because you thought I was drunk and wouldn't remember? You were certainly sober enough to know what you were doing."

"No, that's not the – wait a minute, how did you know I was sober?"

"Please, Miss Babcock, you had nothing stronger than grape juice that night. I'd made previous arrangements with the bartender."

C.C.'s hackles were raised. "You what?! Like I can't take care of myself? I don't need a prom night chaperone, you know!"

"I was just taking precautions on your behalf...I was worried about your mental state, what with Mr. Sheffield taking his final vows and all. You were just recently out of the hos- The Place, I was just trying to protect you."

C.C.'s face flushed with anger. Her words tumbled over one another. "I don't need your protection, thankyouverymuch." She paused and collected herself. "I made my piece with Max and Nanny Fine some time ago. God bless 'em both. White picket fence and happily ever after. And I've had too many screaming headaches lately to take a chance mixing booze with my pills."

The two of them stood silently for a moment, eyeing each other. Finally Niles sighed, and gestured for C.C. to sit on the sofa. She did, and he followed, sitting across from her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to sound...that way..." he tried to explain. "I've just been concerned about...well, your psychological health since...since your accident."

"I appreciate your concern," C.C. replied dryly. "Is that what this proposal is all about, then? A long-term solution for watching over my mental health?"

Niles' face fell and he sat back against the sofa cushions. "No. I'm sorry that such a thought would even enter your mind."

"Well, what am I supposed to think?" C.C. asked, agitatedly. "We've barely exchanged pleasantries for the past month, and then suddenly you ask me to marry you? Why, after – that night, you never said a word about it to me. You acted like it never happened."

Niles stood up abruptly and towered over her. "And what was **_I_** supposed to think? I awoke that morning, after the most magical night of my life, to find myself alone? You were gone, with not so much as a word or a kiss goodbye or even a note? I could only presume you'd had second thoughts, so I did the gentlemanly thing and never mentioned it."

C.C. shrank back and looked up at him. "I didn't...I..." She sighed and buried her face in her hands. "Why do we always end up this way?" she moaned through her fingers.

"What way?" he asked impatiently.

"At cross purposes, confused, whatever," C.C. looked up at him. "I have these feelings, and then, well, you send these other signals, and....oh, I just get so damned messed up."

Niles sat down beside her on the couch. "I don't know about signals, C.C., but I want you to know...." He picked up her right hand and held it between the two of his.

"I love you with all my heart. I'm sorry if I haven't made that clear before now. I lost my heart to you the first time you walked in through that front door. For many years, I knew that a relationship between us was unimaginable, due to our distinctly different stations in life. I kept up the line of communication with you the only way I could, by picking on you. And when you rose to the challenge, and met me every step of the way...well, that only cemented the bond in my heart."

C.C. looked at him, tears in her eyes.

"I know we have completely different backgrounds and lifestyles, but I can't help the fact that I love you, C.C. Babcock. I love you, and I'd be honored if you'd become my wife, and I'd spend the rest of my life doing my utmost to be worthy of you."

C.C. started to speak, then paused. "Oh no," she said suddenly, clasping her hand to her mouth, "I think I'm going to be sick!" And she dashed off to the bathroom. She just barely closed the door behind her, without locking it, and bent over the commode, retching violently. After a few minutes, she was aware of a presence behind her. She paused long enough to sit back on her heels and flush. She looked up, and Niles was there, placing a cold washcloth on her forehead.

"Are you OK?" he asked, with concern on his face. "How long has this been going on? Have you told Dr. Shin about it?"

C.C. got up and grabbed some mouthwash from the medicine cabinet. She was vaguely embarrassed, performing such an intimate chore in front of him, but on the other hand, she felt miserable and didn't particularly care at the moment.

"I'm fine, I just got dizzy and nauseous suddenly. I just need to lay down for a few and I'll be OK." She pushed past him and went upstairs to her room, closing the door behind her. A few seconds later, the door flew open, and Fran ran in.

"Oh, God, what do _you _want?" C.C. asked, lying on her bed with her eyes closed.

"Just checking – are you all right?"

"I'm fine – um, wait a minute - how did you know I was sick? I'm sure I didn't barf quite _that_ loudly that you could hear it from the kitchen."

Fran looked down at her toes for a moment and shrugged. "Can I help it if the intercom was on?" She sat on the edge of the bed next to C.C.

"I told you I was fine, thanks for checking on me, see you later," C.C. said impatiently.

"What about Niles?"

"What about him?"

"He proposed, for heaven's sake! You didn't give him an answer!"

C.C. took the cloth off her forehead and looked at Fran. "Of course my answer is 'no.' The question of marrying him is not even serious enough to consider. He's a domestic, for God's sake, and I'm a Babcock. I've never even been out on a date with him, we barely know each other. Why would I marry him?"

Fran crossed her arms in front of her. "You've seen the man daily for almost 20 years. He knows what you want before you ask for it. He was there holding your hair back while you vomited, for crying out loud! What more do you want? I hate to say it, but since I've had morning sickness, I can't remember Max ever coming into the bathroom to help me while I puked."

"Can you really see me giving up my Park Avenue penthouse to live in his little bedroom with him? Can't you just picture us at family reunions – 'this is my husband, Niles, don't mind the smell of Clorox, he just finished scrubbing the grout.'"

"Can **_you_** honestly tell me that his job bothers you that much? That it makes a difference? That his Oxford education, his sense of humor, his compassion, his caring – that none of that matters?"

C.C. lay quietly, thinking. Truth be told, Niles' job description really didn't bother her anymore. In the back of her mind, she worried what her family and friends would say. Then she stopped herself. What friends? Her whole life was wrapped up within the walls of this house. Why was she afraid, then? Why did she have to analyze everything so much?

"Does a pedigree really matter that much to you?" Fran demanded. "Were you aware that the only reason he produced that freakin' play was to impress you? So that you'd see him as something other than the butler?"

""There's more to it than that, Nan - er, Fran...I..I just don't know if I'm ready for a commitment," C.C. said, changing her line of defense.

Fran stood and threw her hands up in the air in frustration.

"Do you know what that man went through after your plane was hijacked? How he insisted on flying over to wherever the hell it was you were in the hospital? How he was down here every morning telling the kids to keep the noise down because your head hurt? How he makes sure there's a car available whenever you have a doctor's appointment so he can drive you? Honestly...I don't know how someone who went to such a hoity-toity college can be so **_stupid_**!"

C.C. slowly sat up, trying to avoid a headache. She sat in silence for several moments and studied Fran's face before she spoke.

"You know...you're right. I mean, yeah, I worry about commitment, but I've been practically living with the Butler for the past 20 years." She looked down at her hands as she twisted the washcloth absentmindedly. "I can't even imagine starting all over again with someone new. And at my age, it would be a stupid waste of time to even try." She looked up at Fran as if she'd had a sudden revelation. "My God, I _am_ stupid! What the hell is wrong with me?"

Fran leaned over and took C.C.'s hand and smiled. "He's a good man, Miss Babcock," she said quietly. "So many women would kill for someone as half as good. Don't throw it away." She turned and left the room.

C.C. went into her bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face. She looked in the mirror, and combed her hair, freshened up her makeup, and brushed her teeth. She took a deep breath, and marched down the hallway. She paused in front of his door and then knocked. She could hear her heart pounding as the minutes ticked by. Finally, the door opened a crack and he peeked out.

"May I please talk to you?" C.C. asked.

Niles stood back and opened his door. C.C. stepped inside.

"I-I'm sorry about before," she began.

"Of the many responses I imagined to my proposal," he responded, "projectile vomiting wasn't one of them."

C.C. smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me." She took a few steps forward, and then sat on the edge of his bed. She patted the mattress beside her, indicating for him to sit down. He hesitated, then situated himself next to her.

"You caught me by surprise," C.C. admitted. "You're asking me to marry you when, I mean, let's face it, we hardly know each other. You don't know my real name, or my favorite color, or my favorite song...things that couples know about each other."

"Chastity Claire, purple, and 'Bohemian Rhapsody'," Niles replied.

C.C. looked up in surprise. "The State Department sent over your passport with some other documents," he confessed, "but the other things I already knew."

She chuckled. "OK, True Confessions time: I know your last name is Worthington – when Maxwell switched insurance carriers a few years ago, I saw the forms. And your favorite singer is Reba McIntire and your favorite color is red."

"You like anchovies on your pizza and prefer your steak to be rare – you like to hear a heartbeat when they set the plate down."

"And you like Guinness Stout mixed with Bass Ale, and you root for Manchester United."

"You lost a favorite earring at riding camp the summer after the seventh grade."

"You got arrested for busking in the Marble Arch tube station when you were sixteen."

Niles reached over and hit the "play" button on his CD player. The "Siren" CD had been replaced by a Sparks compilation, and suddenly the room was filled with music:

_Marry me, marry me, what's the story_

_Though a thousand hungry people try to crash our story_

_But no one in this darkened world_

_Need ever know but I know_

_Marry me_

_A happily-ever-after does that seem too much to ask?_

_With trees and tots and stucco walls and fountains in the back_

_And lawns that you or I can mow and neighbors who will chat_

_About important issues and the state of this 'n that_

_Marry me, marry me..._

_Someone to bring me out_

_Someone to let me in_

_Someone to bring me joy_

_Somebody near me_

_The purple mountains majesty above the fruited plain_

_Is peeling off the wall of Lucky Miramar Motel_

_Marry me, marry me..._

"Subtle choice of songs," C.C. chuckled.

"All the better to seduce you with," Niles muttered as he leaned over and nuzzled her neck. "Now, where were we? Oh yes, how we don't know each other... Did I mention that you used to call your ninth grade French teacher 'the Turtle'? Or that you secretly enjoy eating at the Waffle House?"

C.C. laughed deep in her throat as he nibbled below her ear. "Let's not forget that you hate ketchup and you used to have a crush on Lynda Carter in her Wonder Woman costume." She reminded him as she sighed deeply and leaned against him, absent-mindedly stroking his thigh with her hand. "I guess maybe we do know a bit about each other..."

"More than you might think," he murmured into her ear, making her shiver as she felt his warm breath. "Remember, I've pawed through your underwear drawer."

C.C. laughed at that and playfully punched him. She looked at him and then suddenly felt shy. Casting her gaze downward, she said, "Niles, I wanted to tell you...about that night."

"What night?" he feigned innocence.

"_That_ night," she emphasized, looking up at him. "I'm sorry I left you like that. I was, I don't know...scared. Confused."

"Silly me, I was hoping for adjectives like 'amazed' or at least 'satiated.'"

"I was both of those, and more," C.C. smiled shyly. She wasn't used to talking about feelings. Not like this. "It was just...well, like I said before, we'd only recently begun talking like regular people – not constantly insulting each other. And suddenly we're in bed together. The next morning, all sorts of things ran through my head – was this a trick? Were you going to make a joke about it? Would you think I was 'easy'"?

"Miss Babcock...C.C.," Niles assured her, smoothing her hair back away from her face, "we'd known each other for over 20 years before we slept together. I'd hardly call that 'easy'!"

"Nevertheless," C.C. continued, "my brain was in a whirlwind. It all had happened so suddenly, and I didn't know what it meant. I thought you were drunk, and that that was the only reason you'd brought me here..." She paused and sighed. "I guess I just think too much sometimes."

"I must admit that's something _I'd_ never accuse you of," Niles chuckled, ducking another punch. He then grew serious as he took her hand and kissed it. "I must apologize for my behavior that night...I had 20 years of emotions suddenly unleashed, and I took full advantage. It was wonderful, but I'm sorry you felt like a one-night stand. That was never my intent."

"Yeah, well," C.C. said, half a smile curling her lips, "next time maybe buy me dinner first?" Her hand reached over and stroked the muscled chest that she remembered admiring that first night.

"Oh, so you think there will be a 'next time'?" he growled as he suddenly wrapped his arms around her and smothered her in a passionate kiss. C.C. was all but gasping for air when it ended.

"I guess I can only hope," she giggled as she pushed him back onto the bed. They dissolved into each others arms, and slowly, passionately undressed each other and lost themselves in a flurry of kisses and caresses. It was even better than the first time, which C.C. thought impossible. Niles held her close and stroked her back as his tongue worked miracles on her breast. She groaned with pleasure and entwined her fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer. Soon she amazed him with her own tongue, as she tickled and teased, and he moaned and writhed until he could no longer restrain himself. He took her then, and C.C. didn't know where she ended and he began, as they melded together in perfect rhythm. He shuddered suddenly and she cried out, and they fell back, exhausted. Niles buried his face in her neck as he tried to catch his breath.

"Oh, how I do love you, Miss Babcock," he sighed.

C.C. traced lazy circles on his shoulder. "And I --- oh, no!" She sat bolt upright suddenly, her hand covering her mouth. She pushed Niles aside and bolted for the bathroom. Puzzled at first, he followed her when he heard the retching sounds. He knelt beside her and embraced her gently when she finished.

"You're going to the doctor tomorrow," he said with finality.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, feeling embarrassed. She stood up and rinsed her face and mouth in the sink. "It's not usually this bad..."

"What do you mean, 'usually'?" Niles stepped forward, concerned. "How long has this been going on? Have you had any other symptoms?"

"Relax, Ben Casey," C.C. said as she walked back to the bedroom and climbed into bed. Niles went to the mini-fridge, got a can of ginger ale, and then joined her. He opened it and handed it to her, saying "drink this, it will settle your stomach."

C.C. took a sip and then reached over to Niles. "Seriously, don't worry. It's only been happening the last week or two, and I don't have any other symptoms. Except sometimes I get tired, but I think that's because of all those pills I take." She took another sip of ginger ale. "It usually doesn't bother me at night, actually; it's worse in the morn..." She stopped cold and her eyes widened. She looked over at Niles, whose eyes were just as wide, but he wore a smile that was threatening to break his face in half.

"...ning," C.C. finished. "Oh, no, you don't think... it can't be."

"Would that be a bad thing?" Niles asked, suddenly worried.

"I don't know..." C.C.'s thoughts were in a tumult. "I mean, no, I guess it's not bad, but..but...it just can't be! At my age??"

"For heaven's sake, despite what I've said in the past, you're not _that_ old. Biologically speaking, you've probably got at least 10 more childbearing years ahead of you. And," he added, "I'll deny I ever said it, but I know for a fact that you're two years younger than Mrs. Sheffield. And she's expecting twins."

C.C. stared straight ahead for a few minutes, then shook her head in disbelief. "I just can't believe....my, God, a baby? How do I know I'll be a good mother?" Panic started to rise in her throat.

Niles pulled her closed and hugged her. "You short change yourself. Certainly you've noticed how Miss Grace looks up to you." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Together, we'll be the best parents any child has ever had." He then let go and reached over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. He extracted a tiny box, opened it, and turned to C.C.

"At the risk of further vomiting," he smiled, "I humbly ask you, C.C. Babcock, if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife."

C.C. smiled broadly and extended her left hand. Niles slipped the ring on her finger, and she reached out to him. "I love you, Butler Boy," she breathed, as she embraced him. She pulled back for a moment and admired her ring, laughing. "A shotgun wedding. Mother will be so proud."

Many hours later, Fran and Max cracked open the door, and peeked inside at the sleeping couple. Maxwell was taken aback, and quickly closed the door, but not before Fran noticed C.C.'s hand outside the covers, wearing a 2.5 carat emerald cut diamond ring.

"I don't ever want to think about what went on in again," Maxwell said, shaking his head.

"I only hope he didn't pay retail..." Fran mumbled as she and Max returned to their room.

THE END (OF THIS STORY...FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS WILL HOPEFULLY FOLLOW IN ANOTHER EPIC)

THANKS FOR READING!


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